The Wide World of Magic
by DisobedienceWriter
Summary: Post-Hogwarts. Harry can't even repair a damaged house without stumbling into major trouble. Harry intrudes upon the kidnapping of former Minister Fudge and finds himself drafted into a secret attempt to find and rescue the wizard. Humor, Spy!Harry, Harry-searching-for-a-career, Bumbling!Harry-becoming-Powerful!Harry.
1. Chapter 1

**The Wide World of Magic**

X-X

A/N: I approached this idea recently, though differently, in my Common Sense collection. Now that I'm going to make this a multi-chaptered story, I decided to rework the beginning quite a bit. Enjoy.

X-X

_Chapter 1_

Harry Potter walked up the steps to Gringotts. It wasn't so very long since he'd flown out of the bank on the back of an Ukrainian Ironbelly. Now he was playing the responsible wizard and coming to clear his actions with the goblins. (He was also severely broke unless he got access to his goblin-controlled vault. So he couldn't claim completely honorable intentions.)

Had Harry possessed much of a choice, he would have put this meeting off.

Goblins scared him more than a little. Which was the point, wasn't it? No one would leave their gold and silver with harmless looking bowtruckles or a pack of tail-wagging crups.

Harry got inside the main hall and almost flinched at the unfriendly looks. They all knew who he was. Did goblins make "Most Wanted" posters?

The ones who didn't glare at him were smiling at them, cruel smiles, lots of sharpened teeth. More than one goblin intentionally picked up a copy of the Daily Prophet and began reading some interior article. So that Harry had to walk past more than a dozen copies of his own grimacing face. The papers were from that day and the day before and even the day before that. Harry's picture on all of them, sensational headlines above the photographs. Trash.

Harry trudged across the marble floor to the only goblin who wasn't making a show of reading the paper or counting coins or weighing gems that were bigger than Harry's closed fist.

Harry stopped in front of that counter and waited.

Eventually the goblin stopped his scratching. He put down a quill and stared at Harry.

"Yes?"

"I received a letter from the Ministry of Magic that one of your supervisors wished to talk to me," Harry said.

"Name?"

As if the goblin didn't know. Still, Harry decided to go with polite for as long as he was able.

"Harry Potter, sir."

This goblins smiled for a moment. He had sharper teeth than the others Harry had seen. A voice in the back of his head — the one he usually ignored whenever he was about to plunge into massive trouble — screamed at Harry to run out of Gringotts. Pretend he had no gold at all, consider every coin lost in the war, something Voldemort had treated as personal spoils.

A pity Harry never did listen to that voice in his head.

He just stood there while the goblin sized Harry up. For a funeral shroud, perhaps, or maybe to see if his dimensions would exceed one of their larger roasting pans. A special recipe called Crisp-Roasted Wizard.

"Yes. I had a note about your…situation. Wait here, wizard."

The goblin slammed his ledger shut, dismounted from the elevated stool it had been sitting on, and then wobbled away slowly. Agonizingly slowly.

Harry turned and looked around the marble room. He eyed the door with some envy, but remained where he was.

He looked at the room with more care now. He knew he had to have inflicted some damage in here after he broke into Bellatrix Lestrange's vault. If he had, and Harry was sure he had, he couldn't see it now. The goblins had repaired everything quickly.

Much faster than Harry and the others had managed to repair Hogwarts after the final battle there. They'd gotten the debris moved out. They hadn't gotten intricate stone back into place so one couldn't even see the damage lines.

Harry was a little jealous. He'd helped finish the last of the haulage today; then he'd helped raise a temporary roof over the worst of the damage that extended upwards to the ceiling. Bellatrix Lestrange had perished in the Great Hall — Molly Weasley was still trying to take the credit for that — but she had unleashed all kinds of hell before she'd died.

Harry wondered if the enchanted ceiling would ever be put to rights again.

Harry didn't know enough, none of the volunteers did. Whatever was left to finish would require magical specialists. Portraitists to see if they could repair damaged magical paintings. Enchanters who would need to rework the magical protections on the ancient castle, if such a thing were possible. Masons who could make new stone resemble the old carvings that made Hogwarts look like Hogwarts. An illusionist to work on the ceiling of the Great Hall, assuming such a specialist would consent to come.

The hard, almost mindless work at Hogwarts was done so Harry was moving out. Too many bad memories associated with the place, too many dead faces in his mind. Also, Harry had one of his periodic flare-up of fame-itis. The Prophet was splashing his photograph and name around; the staring hordes were making life at Hogwarts hard to choke down.

Harry agreed some of that was his fault or, at least, his wonky luck playing havoc. Surviving a second Killing Curse. Defeating Voldemort. Assisting in the Hogwarts rebuilding. Then giving a disastrous interview to the Daily Prophet, what he was presently most famous for. A stupid interview published by a reprehensible rag.

To be quite honest, Harry was in Gringotts to beg for restored vault access so he could get out of the public eye for a while. If he hid for a month or two, the stories would wither away; they always had before.

A good, simple plan, right? A broke Harry going into hiding for a couple months. How? He had planned to return to #12 Grimmauld Place — and grub off the food he expected was still available there — until about five seconds after he set foot in the place.

If Hogwarts had been savaged, then #12 Grimmauld Place had been violated, like a pack of feral cats making shreds of a fat mouse. It looked like drunken trolls had tried to learn how to waltz by punching through the walls and the floors nilly-willy. Obviously Voldemort's people had done their worst to the place.

The real reason Harry had come to Gringotts, to beg for access to his vault? Harry needed to buy a wizard's tent — Harry didn't know precisely what had happened to the one he'd spent part of the last year living inside of — and, for that, he needed gold. Fifteen galleons, seven sickles, four knuts for the least expensive model currently on sale.

To get to his vault, he needed to apologize to the goblins. At least that's what Kingsley Shacklebolt, the new interim Minister for Magic, had told Harry.

So, now he waited.

His fear detectors were still cranked up to screaming.

But Harry's wonky luck had to break in his favor some of the time. Right?

Harry turned again and looked…at a bunch of armored goblins carrying spears. Very sharp looking spears. A goblin not in armor stood at the back.

Harry looked around the lobby.

The other goblins were gone. Their ledgers were gone. Their gold coins and jewels and scales, all gone. Harry hadn't heard a thing.

The doors leading to Diagon Alley were shut. Had Harry ever noticed them shut before?

He didn't think so.

The goblin who wasn't armored pushed his way through the military collection. "Mr. Potter, these guards will escort you to your meeting."

Escort?

Right…

"Who am I meeting?" Harry asked.

"The Chairman of the Board of Directors."

Uh oh.

Not good.

Harry should have picked out a nice bit of park. Or even returned to Hogwarts and dealt with the staring. Better than meeting, under guard, with the Chairman of the Board of Directors. His bones were cold just now. Perhaps a fatal chill.

X-X

The situation was definitely not good.

Harry was deep inside of Gringotts, 'escorted' by the dozen armed goblins. He hadn't asked much about the details of this meeting. However, he soon learned he should have.

He had been forced to surrender his wand, his clothing, and much of his reasoning skills. He was freezing. There was also a persistent drip-drip-drip that seemed centered over him.

As if that wasn't bad enough, a pair of goblins had bound Harry's hands before they attached chains to Harry's bare ankles and then unseen goblins had used some kind of a winch to pull an upside-down Harry into the air. He was now suspended over a bit of large, wet, hissing creatures. Harry swore he could see monstrous teeth down in that dark pit. Did these things have chompers that glowed? Hagrid had definitely never lectured on something like that.

Harry could see goblins in the shadows of the room. All the ones he could see were sharpening swords or spear points. Not usually a good sign.

Harry half wondered if he was about to cause the Goblin Rebellion of 1998. Well, if his death would cause it.

He wasn't so afraid of death now, not really. He had walked to his death a week ago, maybe ten days ago. He knew something of what was on the other side.

He just didn't want to add another bit of (posthumous) fame: the starter of a Goblin Rebellion. Harry might just appear in every chapter of a particularly gossipy history text if that happened. Wizard history, goblin history, insurrections, famous Battles at Hogwarts, magical impossibilities, etc.

He dropped those thoughts and tried to see and listen. Unfortunately, the dripping that started on the bottoms of his feet had trailed down his legs, his back, and were now stinging when they got into his eyes and his nose — it was terribly distracting, like slow drowning while hung upside down. Harry thrashed around a bit to sling the water off him.

More than one goblin laughed at him.

Why weren't they getting dripped on?

Harry continued trying to keep the water from drowning him.

He only stopped when the water — miraculously — stopped. Convenient, that.

Harry then noted that the goblins in the cavern had stopped working on their weapons. A larger mass of armed goblins filed into the chamber.

The cavern filled with sound. There was guttural chattering, gossiping at the wizard strung up over a pit or something. Harry thought it looked like spectators in the stands before a Quidditch match. They were here for the entertainment value of Harry being stabbed with spears or fed to whatever it was that lived in the pit below his head.

Harry knew better than to say anything, to curse anyone. He would have to go to his doom silently.

One large goblin wearing an obscene amount of golden armor eventually stepped through the scrum. Harry guessed this was the chairman of their board of directors.

"Quiet. All the people will be quiet." He waited. Then he stared up at where Harry hung from the roof of the cavern. He waved his hand, not a gesture to say hello but rather one with a more martial feel. "The trial of Harry James Potter, thief, is now started."

So this was their version of a courtroom.

Excellent.

Harry had seen how depraved the Ministry of Magic was with its courtrooms. Of course the goblins were worse. The Ministry tried to build their version so it was imposing; the goblins just found the worst-looking cave and then set to making it even less comfortable.

It was filled from end-to-end with armored goblins. Harry could definitely see their sharpened teeth glinting in the torch light.

The room thrummed as the goblins tapped the blunt ends of their spears on the stone. Tap-tap-tap times a thousand equaled a noise Harry had never heard before — and never expected to hear again.

It was the sound of his approaching death.

He would be a few seconds of entertainment to all these goblins.

Harry would have struggled, but he couldn't see how he could free himself from the chains. Even if he did, he'd fall into a pit of things with teeth everywhere.

He was…resigned. He had broken into Gringotts, he had ridden a dragon out and destroyed much of the infrastructure of the bank. It had been a necessary step in ending Voldemort. He had broken one of the first rules he'd learned about the wizarding world: never screw with goblins. If he had to give his life as payment…well, Harry knew all about death, didn't he?

The goblin that had spoken before stepped closer to Harry.

"The charge is that this wizard, with or without compatriots, broke into our hallowed halls and penetrated our security, even getting inside one of our vaults. He stole from our clients and then he stole from us, one of our security dragons. He destroyed infrastructure throughout the tunnels and even into the main hall."

The pounding of spear butts filled the cavern.

"This is among the most severe crimes we know of. Thievery."

No need for evidence, Harry thought. Just head straight to the summation.

He assumed the goblins in the cavern would serve as his jury.

Totally fair. One hundred percent. No bias inside this cavern.

The goblin looked back up at Harry. "You admit to breaking into Gringotts?"

Harry tried to say yes, but Harry found it awfully hard to speak while hung upside down. He could make noise, but making words…that wasn't within his skill set.

"We need to hear the accused give his confession. Lower him."

They did. Harry fell about fifteen feet, but thankfully not into the bug pit. No, the cold stone floor was actually a much better alternative.

Still, it took Harry a good while before the blood in his body gracefully redistributed itself. He wondered if he was going to have a permanent blush now or if the thumping headache would go away in the next hour.

The goblin didn't give Harry quite enough time.

"You admit it?" the goblin asked again.

"Yes."

Harry had recently walked to his death. He could at least be honest when death beckoned a second time.

The goblins in the room began tapping their spears again.

Approval.

Or perhaps they were practicing for some maneuver that involved spearing thieves. Tap-tap-tap-jab.

"Tell us the tale, thief. How did you get in? What did you take? Why did you do it?"

None of those questions could endanger Harry any more than he was at present. So Harry explained, obliquely, about the 'devices' he'd been trying to find, the trinkets Voldemort left behind. He told the tale of rescuing a goblin and making a deal: the device for the goblin-wrought Sword of Gryffindor. Harry told the tale, taking care to leave out Ron and Hermione's names. He wouldn't let them suffer the same fate. Although the goblins probably already knew their names.

Still, it was the thought that counted. Protect them. He wondered if he would get enough time and opportunity to send them notes before he died. _Never go into Gringotts again._

The chief goblin stood and listened to all of what Harry said. He asked questions at various points. Harry did his best to answer them. Total honesty.

Finally the tale was done and the goblin had no further questions. The room fell silent until the goblin nodded twice. "This wizard is far too pale and too thin. It hurts my eyes. Bring forth the robes."

Three goblins pushed their ways through the crowd. Each carried a different robe.

The goblin set his hand on a simple robe made of something like burlap. The crowd in the room shouted. The goblin stepped forward and placed his hand on a robe made of a lighter, not-quite-white fabric. The crowd was much louder, two or three times the volume. Then the old goblin touched the third robe, black and blood-red, shimmering in the torch light. The room exploded into noise. Screaming and the gnashing of spear against stone.

The old goblin plucked that third robe from its attendant and threw it at Harry.

"Cover your pale flesh, wizard."

Harry scrambled into the robes. They were damned heavy. Ceremonial robes, ritual fighting robes maybe. Still, Harry didn't enjoy flashing a bunch of goblins his 'pale' nakedness. Just more humiliation before they threw him into a fighting pit of some sort.

The robes did do one thing. Harry was no longer quite so cold. But he didn't think this was a kindness. He was playing a game and he didn't know the rules. Harry turned to the chief goblin once he was attired.

"Tell us why your face has been in the news rag again, wizard."

As if goblins couldn't, and didn't, read English. This was just more humiliation. They wanted Harry to explain this stupidity out loud.

"I gave an interview to the newspaper."

"An interview about the battle at the wizard school?"

"Yes, at Hogwarts."

"Sounds very uninteresting," the goblin said.

"It should have been standard, but as it ended, the interviewer asked me about what I was doing next."

Some of the goblins in the cavern began to laugh.

"I said something they decided to blow out of proportion."

"What did you say?"

Harry gritted his teeth. "I told the interviewer I didn't know."

"You don't know?"

"No. I was honest."

"All goblins know." The old creature was bragging, taunting.

"I guess wizards are different," Harry said.

"You haven't been trained to a career? Apprenticed to someone who will show you a particular skill?" the chief goblin asked.

"No."

"Strange. Unfortunate."

The goblin regarded Harry a moment longer. If his face had an emotion, Harry thought it might be pity.

He said, "We'll adjourn to deliberate, wizard."

Then the entire cavern rapidly emptied, like someone had announced free gold coins were available in the lobby.

Harry felt a chill, a metaphysical chill. He was so screwed.

Harry Potter, Dead from Bravery. No. That wasn't quite right. Dead from Ignorance.

"Damn Binns."

For teaching and teaching about goblins, but never modulating his voice. He was the perfect white noise machine. However, right now, Harry might have wanted to know something of what the ghostly history professor had taught.

You know, before he wound up the main dish at a goblin feast.

"Damn Kingsley."

For telling Harry he needed to meet with Gringotts.

Harry wondered if he could hang around as a ghost for a time and haunt the interim Minister of Magic.

"Damn Dumbledore."

For keeping secrets within…

"I wish people wouldn't call me that," a voice said.

Harry, startled, looked up. Then he looked around and saw a shimmering figure of a human. A dead one. Harry should know. He'd been present when this particular wizard had been murdered.

"Professor Dumbledore…"

The ghost was just as startled as Harry was. It turned around, a complete circuit, and examined the cavern it now stood inside of.

"Harry, my boy, what have you done?"

"I don't know."

"You went to the goblins, huh?"

"I didn't know they were going to kill me."

The ghost began to laugh. "Oh, no. They're not going to kill you. It's much worse than that."

Harry felt a tremendous spike of rage. Damn Dumbledore. Definitely damn Dumbledore.

Laughing about something worse than death.

"What are they going to do to me?" Harry asked.

"First, my boy, I need you to tell me how you brought me to this side. Have you become a necromancer?"

"Ah? No."

Definitely not.

"Yet here I am, Harry. What can you tell me?"

He was always the inquisitor, even when dead. Figures.

"I just…said your name."

"You said Dumbledore and then I appeared?"

That was something, wasn't it? He'd said Damn Dumbledore… Maybe Harry could summon a late potions teacher by calling for Grease-Pot Snape.

He wondered if he could summon his parents or Sirius. Or Remus or any of the others.

"Yes. I just said your name."

"Are you sure that's all you said?" the ghost asked.

"Well, I might have added a curse word or two."

"What did you say exactly, Harry?"

"Damn Dumbledore…."

The ghost wavered a moment and almost popped before it stabilized. Those two words had some power over Dumbledore's ghost. Freaky.

"You can't say those words again, Harry."

Sounded like a typical bit of Dumbledore. Make a pronouncement and expect the serfs to obey.

"Why?"

"You just can't."

"Damn Dumbledore."

Unfortunately for the ghost, this Harry was a more mature, more war-weary person now. He no longer just took the advice offered him by those supposedly wiser and more worldly.

The ghost wobbled and the miasma around him almost popped again. It seemed to generate some pain even.

"Sounds like I can say it. In fact, I can go on all day," Harry said.

He didn't feel good about torturing a ghost, but he needed more than Tight-Lipped Dumbledore cared to explain.

Yes, Harry was threatening a ghost.

Not his proudest moment.

"Please stop saying that," the ghost demanded. He didn't ask. He gave an order and expected it to be obeyed.

"Why does it bother you?"

"I'll tell you. But please stop."

"For now," Harry said.

"We don't have much time. The goblins will be returning soon. They really shouldn't see me…"

"Are they afraid of ghosts?"

Perhaps Harry could get himself out of trouble. Use ghost-Dumbledore to scare off the goblins and all their spears.

"No. Ask me later."

"Fine."

"Those two words you keep saying, the curse word and my last name, are actually my real name. My True Name."

True Name. Something important about magic not taught in Hogwarts, Harry was shocked.

"Really? I thought it was Albus Something Wulfric Something Dumbledore."

"Well, magic is magic, and poorly understood at that. My mother, in my early years, used to call me something else."

Harry got the idea. He smiled and then he almost laughed. Wouldn't do to attract attention to himself by making noise, though.

"She called you Damn…"

"Don't. Please."

"She called you…that?"

"She and my father and my brother. There's a reason I always like my little sister best. She wasn't allowed to swear," the ghost said. "Because of how it was used, I suppose it became my True Name."

Harry smiled. Yeah, he was definitely going to try summoning Grease-Pot Snape, assuming he worked out a way to survive the goblins. "Alright, enough about names. What are the goblins going to do to me? Worse than death?"

"Later."

Damn Dumbledore, Harry wanted to say. But didn't. "You were a handful as a child."

"My enemies would have said I was a handful as an adult, too."

The ghost gave a wide smile. Like he expected Harry to agree.

Dumbledore hadn't been a handful. Harry wasn't sure what word to use, but handful wasn't it. A stinking pile of deception…

"You implied they weren't going to kill me."

"They won't. They can't."

"I've seen their sharpened spears and the armor they wear. I'm pretty sure they can," Harry said.

"Your life is quite safe down here, Harry. They can't — they won't — harm you."

Harry recognized that this sounded like Dumbledore telling the truth. But what wasn't he saying?

"I still have chains on my ankles. I was hung over a pit of whatever those are."

"Gnashing Grubworms. That's the closest translation I've ever gotten."

"Right. Gnashing Grubworms. They sound cuddly."

"No, not cuddly. But their large teeth are meant for gumming through roots. When they get older they'll be more fearsome, I understand. But right now they couldn't puncture skin. They just look and sound scary."

Harry shook his head. He stepped over to the pit and looked inside again.

Those were some very large teeth. They looked plenty sharp. Of course, quantity had a quality all of its own. There were enough of the things that they could do some damage just by squashing a potential victim like Harry.

They might be called worms, but they were larger than the seals Harry had seen in the zoo.

"If they're not going to kill me, then why did they drag me down here, strip me, string me up over a pit of massive worms, and then make me admit how I'd broken in here?"

The ghost almost blushed. The ghost stammered a bit before saying nothing.

"Please," Harry said.

"I can't say. You're doing to find out in a few seconds anyway. I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise, Harry. Just hold your nose. The taste…well, you'll have to get used to it."

"Damn Dumbledore."

This time the ghost did pop. Oh, the look of surprise on the ghost's face. It was almost worth dying in this cavern.

And no one living would ever know that Harry Potter had become an accidental necromancer.

X-X

Harry turned his body and took every part of the cavern. He noticed that the emptiness was filling. Finally enough returned that they made enough noise for Harry to notice.

Harry looked around for the old goblin in the resplendent robes.

He was evidently the first to leave and the last to return.

Slowly the crowd of spear-wielding goblins parted and the old goblin returned to the center of the cavern.

Harry held off his urge to shift his weight from foot to foot.

The old creature stopped and flashed his sharpened teeth at Harry. "The Board of Directors has voted. Guilty."

The room broke into cheers and more thumping of those damned spears.

Harry had to keep from collapsing. It was one thing to admit to everything, but the word guilty in a cavern like this one. Harry couldn't see a way to escape. He was still chained up.

He now knew that ghost-Dumbledore had been wrong. Harry was going to die in this cavern.

The goblins were screaming and shouting and stamping.

Were they going to push him in with those worm things, the Gnashing Grubworms? Or just chop off his head.

"The sentence shall be as follows…"

Harry couldn't even draw a breath into his body.

What horror had they convened to discuss? Feeding him to a dragon, throwing him from the mine cart tracks into the caverns, forcing him to slave away in some menial task forever in the dark?

"Harry Potter, Wizard, Thief, Warrior, shall drink one gobletful of the Red Stone Wine. He shall spend one hour in the Black Mud Pit. He shall be given his wand and one hour to repair the damage he caused to Tunnel Segment 60203. Then he shall finance one unit of reparations for the Goblin People."

Harry almost lost his ear drums. Both of them. The cavern was overwhelmed with sound, approving sounds.

Harry didn't know what any of these things meant. Was Red Stone Wine a poison that Snape had never covered? Harry didn't know.

He saw one goblin trying to move through the crowd. He carried something in front of him, a vessel that had to be larger than a pewter cauldron meant for potions-work. It was smoking and little bits of lightning erupted from it from time to time.

Had Harry ever watched a film like Animal House, he would have thought the goblins were chanting that he should drink, drink, drink. Sadly, Harry was much deprived in a cultural sense.

He definitely didn't want to drink that.

Poke him with spears or something. Death by electrical poison didn't sound fun…

The goblin bearing the vile-smelling concoction stopped in front of Harry and then held out the concoction for Harry to drink.

"Well?" the head goblin demanded.

He was still chained. There were still at least a thousand goblins with swords and spears and maces. Harry reached out his hands.

"No hands. Lean forward and drink it."

The first sip burned. It was like Harry had his lips burn off before he lost his tongue and most of his throat.

"Drink, wizard, drink."

He did.

This was bad. He didn't want to know what the worse was for saying no.

X-X

It was maybe four hours later. Maybe six. Harry lay on a bed and aimed his head at a silver bucket and puked again. He'd been puking off and on for a long time. He didn't think his stomach could hold so much. He didn't think his entire body could hold that much.

He was alive. Barely.

He had completed three of his four punishments. Harry now realized they had been horrible, embarrassing, and disgusting. Almost as bad as deadly, but less permanent.

Harry also now realized that goblins could laugh. It was a horrible, deep sound, like madmen bashing the crap out of bass drums.

The whole experience had been something Dudley Dursley might have dreamed up when he was eight. If he were aware of alcohol in its most toxic and disgusting form.

Harry had been puking the stuff up while he drank it, then while he climbed through a mud- and creature-filled challenge course (while he continued to puke), and finally while he helped remove stone he'd broken loose when he escaped from Gringotts.

What was the last of it? The goblin who'd pronounced Harry's sentence had used some weasely words. "Finance reparations" or something similar.

Was that just an excuse to empty his vault?

He'd give up all his gold if he could stop puking.

"Wizard, the final punishment starts in five minutes. Leave the vomiting chalice and come with me."

Vomiting chalice. Had Binns told stories about such items, Harry was sure he'd have paid a lot more attention. Out of can't-look-away interest or revulsion, either one.

Harry pushed himself off the mattress, realized the ceremonial robes he was wearing were clean again (he still didn't have his wand to cast a spell), and accompanied the goblin.

They returned to the same cavern as before, but it was now transformed.

Instead of bare stone walls and stalactites with a center pit filled with slithering worms, it was now glistening in gold and crystals. There were hundred of semi-circular and circular tables everywhere inside.

Was Harry paying for all of this?

He was going to need a job, a well-paying one, very soon.

"Guest of honor sits here."

The goblin pushed Harry into a human-sized chair and then vanished. Guest of honor?

Maybe the ghost-Dumbledore had been right. Maybe they weren't going to take Harry's head. Just make him wish he were dead.

The room began to fill with goblins all now wearing robes similar to what Harry wore.

Uh oh.

Another weird thing Harry didn't know about.

His head ached from that horrible stuff he'd drank and he didn't have any idea why he was dressed up like a tall, pale goblin.

Harry watched the room and waited. He was tense, but also a good deal more confident than he'd been crawling through the mud pits.

The old goblin returned and sat next to Harry. "I'm glad you survived."

"I don't understand any of this."

"Well, Thief, let me explain."

He would never lose the title of Thief, would he? Harry was going to have to find a different place to keep his money.

"To the Goblin People, a proud people, we appreciate nothing so much as a person, like yourself, who develops the same skills and talents we treasure. A goblin or a wizard who aspires to steal from us, and fails, we treat harshly. Those who succeed as Warriors or, even more rarely, as Thieves, those we reward. Mr. Potter, you are now a member of the Society of Thieves and also a member of the Society of Warriors. Congratulations."

The room erupted in cheers finally.

"But…"

Everything Binns had said. Centuries of goblin rebellions. What was actually true?

"We treasure nothing so much as success."

Harry was grateful for such a screwy idea. He was also angry that he had no idea.

"So you've just inducted me into these societies?" Harry asked.

"Of course, Mr. Potter. You are a great warrior and an accomplished thief."

"Who else have you inducted?"

"Ah, well, you'll have to attend the annual meetings to learn. There are few wizards involved, unfortunately. The ones who accomplish truly impressive deeds rarely return to Gringotts after their deeds. It seems a few wizards must have let a few stories turn into rumors."

Harry wondered how often Dumbledore had gone to Gringotts after he became famous in the 1940s. After all, he sent Hagrid to collect the most famous magical device ever conceived, the Philosopher's Stone, rather than attend to it himself.

"Let me guess. Nicholas Flamel…"

"He does still come to annual meetings, if they're held in parts of the world he wants to see."

So Flamel was still alive?

"The late Albus Dumbledore…."

"That wizard. He was a member of the Society of Warriors, but he hasn't attended more than fifty years worth of festivities."

Harry nodded.

Dumbledore had been afraid of the goblins. That might just explain a lot.

"How much worse are the annual meetings than what I went through today…"

The goblin laughed.

"You'll find out next summer. Don't miss it. We keep track, you know."

"Right," Harry almost squeaked. He absolutely knew this goblin wasn't lying to him. They would keep track of Harry forevermore.

Servers then brought out platter after platter of meats.

Harry didn't recognize a single thing. There were leathery wings on some of the dishes and tentacles on others. Thankfully no dish had both wings and tentacles.

"What's this one called?" Harry asked.

Harry had pointed at the very largest of the platters, roughly the dimensions of a Cooper Mini.

"Ah, the specialty of the evening. In English, you would call it Gnashing Boreworm."

"Is that related to a Gnashing Grubworm?" Harry asked.

"Yes, the Grubworm grows into the Boreworm."

"I see."

It didn't taste too horrible if Harry kept from thinking about what he was eating.

X-X

The goblins were kind enough to take Harry to his vault after they gave him a private room in which to redress. His head still swam with what he'd been through. His induction into the goblin version of the Masons, the way every goblin he passed referred to him as Thief Potter.

"Vault 687. Key please."

Harry handed over the little piece of metal.

Then he was inside.

But his thoughts weren't on the present or on the gold that had originally lured him to Gringotts.

Harry was still mulling over the long conversation he'd had with the old goblin. He roared when Harry had asked his name. He'd claimed that some called him Gringott, after the founder of the bank. Others called him Ragnok because some wizard had decided that was the name of their leader (it meant floor sweeper in Gobbledygook). In truth, the old goblin — and leader of this colony of goblins — had a name that translated to Slashroot, after a misadventure in his youth. All goblins were named after mistakes they'd made, Slashroot had admitted. Proud of their mistakes, just as Harry should be of his own.

Harry finally started looking around his small, but crowded vault. The Black money was now his, too. It was a good bit to a wizard not yet eighteen, but this wasn't going to last him all that many years. Harry really didn't know how much it cost to live in the wizarding world. Sure a wand cost seven galleons, but how many of those was he going to buy over the course of his life. How much did a flat cost to rent? Or food to purchase?

He didn't know.

"Are there deeds or papers in here?" Harry asked out the vault door.

"Bullion-vault only, Thief Potter."

He nodded. He had hoped. After all, he had seen that the Lestrange vault held other things, insane things but more than gold.

"Did my parents entrust anything else to the bank?"

"No."

"Might I be alone for a while in here?"

"All you had to do was ask, Thief. Have fun stealing your own gold," the goblin laughed.

Harry was very tired of that title, Thief. Do one bad thing one time and it followed you around forever, huh?

"Damn Dumbledore."

As Harry half expected, a ghost appeared.

"What in the world… Harry, did you summon me again?"

"You only told me half the story, Professor, and I'm calling you back for the rest. I take it you're a member of the Society of Warriors?"

"To my shame, yes."

"That rock wine was something."

"I believe it was called Red Stone Wine and it was among the foulest things I've ever tasted. Ever wonder about my addiction to sweets? That taste won't be going away for some time…"

Harry could imagine.

"So…why didn't you just tell me all this instead of hemming and hawing."

"A little terror is good for the soul."

Just like everything else Dumbledore touched. Explain nothing and let the ignorant young man experience the 'thrill.'

"I can see why your mother and brother called you Damn a lot. Not really a humanitarian, are you?"

"It's overrated, Harry."

"You like seeing people sweat."

"Builds character."

"Anything else I need to know about Gringotts?" Harry asked.

"Well, if you'd paid attention in your History class…"

"Impossible."

"…you might not have been so fearful. Cuthbert really tries to entertain by talking about how fearsome the goblin warriors used to be."

"Their spears looked plenty sharp tonight."

"You don't have a high regard for the Ministry of Magic, Harry?" the ghost asked.

"No, not really."

"Well, yes, the incarnation you knew was particularly inept. Cornelius Fudge will go down as perhaps the worst Minister of Magic in five hundred years — and that's saying something. But the Ministry's competence ebbs and flows. Sometimes a Fudge rules the place. Sometimes a witch like Ermilda Flossy."

"I've never heard of her."

"Well, Binns was never a fan of her policies."

"Oh?"

"She helped end a goblin rebellion. She wrote the peace treaty herself. She was the one who enchanted the parchment itself with a few devious, but powerful spells. That treaty wasn't just spellwork; it was magic that could bind wizards and goblins."

Harry knew something about magical contracts. Ahem, the Goblet of Fire. He didn't like them.

"Wizards had to hand over at least some of their gold for the goblins to manage. Goblins could be as grumpy and ruthless as they wanted, but they could never bring actual harm to a wizard."

Harry was startled at this bit of information that Hogwarts also didn't teach. Dumbledore and probably Binns knew it, but they conveniently left it off the syllabus. Excellent.

"Just wizards, you said?"

"Yes."

"Didn't apply to muggles?"

"No. Sign of the times," the ghost said.

"So I was in no danger there?"

"Wizards still keep their gold with the goblins, don't even question it. Bad mouth the goblins, sure, but never close their vaults. Goblins menace wizards as much as they care, but never even dream of cutting a throat. Very few wizards or goblins even know the magic is still in force."

"I'd have been a lot happier if, you know, you mentioned this earlier."

"I thought you'd enjoy the experience."

"Right."

Harry gathered up many, many handfuls of gold coins. He hoped to spread out his visits to Gringotts quite a bit. As in never. That horrible drink, bleh. The promise of more next summer, bleh.

Harry stepped out of his vault, but left the ghost inside.

"Thief Potter, are you done talking to yourself or your gold yet?"

Of course the goblin had heard something. Stupid Harry.

"Is that common? For wizards to talk to their gold?"

"Yes."

Harry couldn't help smiling. Of course wizards talked to their gold.

"Well, I wasn't talking to myself."

"Alright. Talking to the stone wall?" the goblin attendant asked.

"No. There seems to be a ghost inhabiting my vault."

"A ghost…" The goblin pushed forward and surveyed the vault. Then the goblin tapped a section of the stone next to the vault door and a few runes flashed into visibility. "We know this ghost, Thief Potter."

"He can't do anything to my holdings?"

"Of course not. But we can do things to him."

Harry smiled and got back in the mine cart. It really wasn't all that nice to tease the dead, but that wasn't going to stop Harry now.

"Ah, Warrior Dumbledore, yes, you have unfinished business with Gringotts," the goblin explained into the vault.

"Harry, Harry, please."

The words were faint, but Harry pretended he hadn't heard them at all. Let's just see how Dumbledore enjoys some of his own practices turned against him.

"Send me back, Harry. Please send me back."

The goblin closed the vault door.

"We may have to access your vault one more time, Thief Potter, in order to remove the ghost."

"That's fine," Harry said.

He wondered just what goblins could do to a ghost. A dead wizard wouldn't count as a wizard according to the treaty Dumbledore explained, would it? Perhaps these goblins could work out their aggressions toward wizard-kind through ghost-Dumbledore. Harry half hoped so.

Maybe it would loosen Dumbledore's tongue. Not even death had managed that yet. Maybe the goblins would have better luck.

Harry didn't think so, but he was willing to give them a shot.


	2. Chapter 2

X-X

Chapter 2

X-X

A/N: I'm glad folks are enjoying this story so far. I expect to post two chapters a month.

Harry has a bit of time to breathe this chapter. He'll be back to his trouble-finding ways soon enough.

X-X

A quiet, calm morning. The wrecked House of Black permitted its sole human occupant to avoid the considerable street noise outside in busy London. Until a door opened and feet tapped across wooden floors that had once been covered in expensive carpets. But no longer.

"Harry, Harry, are you here?"

Hermione.

Harry had been dead asleep, but he recognized the voice even before he was fully awake.

Harry had been sleeping in a wizard's tent, but he hadn't paid for any of the added features, like sound blocking.

Harry sought out any noise of a battle, any sounds of danger.

"Harry."

No. It was peacetime.

There was no danger, save for a Hermione Granger on a self-directed mission.

Harry felt like boiled hell from his time with the goblins, but unleashing a concerned Hermione might be worse than drinking more of that Red Stone Wine.

Harry pushed himself out of bed and tried to shake off the stresses and pains that the night had provided little remedy against.

"What the hell happened to this place?"

Her voice really did travel. Harry pulled on his jeans and his trainers and fumbled with the cheap buttons that held the tent's flap closed. Who'd made these things?

"Harry, where…"

"Just a second, Hermione. I'm here. I'll come down."

Harry walked out of the tent and then down the stairs. He made sure to jump past the several destroyed bits. There were some ominous groaning noises. Not good. A strong wind might just bring these sticks down, the ancient house of Black notwithstanding.

"I can find you," she called back.

"Not this time."

Harry hoped he'd be able to climb the stairs again later. If the noises they made got worse, he guessed he could do some experimenting and float himself up. Then he'd have to gather his tent and other belongings and find somewhere else to stay for a while. Maybe the Forest of Dean.

Harry looked around.

"Hermione?"

"Downstairs. What a mess. I'll come up."

Harry waited. Better that one of them stop moving and allow the other one to catch up.

His eyes took the time to survey the main floor. He could see into the basement from where he stood. If he looked up, he could see overcast sky.

He'd have preferred to set up the tent in the parlor. He'd have to do some cleaning and move the tent downstairs today. It would be some time before Grimmauld Place was actually habitable without it. The next rain storm — and Harry lived in England, the land of rain — would see Grimmauld Place become a five story swimming pool.

Harry turned when he heard footfalls on wood.

Hermione did not look happy to see him.

"I thought you ran away," Hermione said. "A patronus message saying you're moving out of Hogwarts — not sufficient."

Harry tried not to smile. She never did change. "I did run away after telling you I was running away."

"I thought I drove you out of Hogwarts."

"Nope."

"I feared you wouldn't be here or anywhere in England, anywhere I could think of."

"I'm here."

She was in hyper-fear mode. Harry would have to be careful not to let her know about what happened in Gringotts the night before. She'd have Harry wrapped in ropes and levitated to Madam Pomphrey before Harry could say another word.

"You could have said London. I was fearing some place a lot further away… Outside the places that receive the Daily Prophet."

"When have I ever traveled?" Harry asked.

"When you're being pursued by insane newspaper readers."

"It's irritating, nothing more."

"I collected another forty-seven letters for you. More advice from total strangers."

Of course. The Prophet got more paying readers the more that they fanned this thing.

"You going to demand that I open these, too?" Harry asked.

"I'm sorry about yesterday morning. I shouldn't have stuck my nose in. I was just nervous, scared. Seeing my parents, assuming I can find them. Then I hate for you to get battered in the Prophet again…"

"Breathe, Hermione. It's okay. It's fine. I'll figure something out."

"But, if you don't, if you hit the end of August…"

"I know. I'll be joining you at Hogwarts. I did get wrangled into that promise. You and Professor McGonagall made me. It's okay."

"No, it's not fair. You don't have to."

That almost sounded like Hermione apologizing. Impossible. Harry took some effort not to smile.

She would always push too far and then feel guilty. He'd forgive her and then she'd do it again the next time she got agitated. It was like she couldn't take medium steps in life. She either had to be running or shuffling meekly.

He forgave her. Not that he'd say it in so many words. He forgave her, but still hoped she'd learn a different way to confront the world.

Hoped, not expected.

He did know Hermione Granger, the founder of SPEW and many other acts of insanity.

"It's okay. It's always good to have some plans. Merlin knows that I could have saved myself some trouble if I'd planned."

"Okay, Harry. So what are you going to do about this place?"

Harry finally started laughing. Hermione just killed him sometimes. Her mind had to march from problem to problem like a possessed soldier.

"No idea. Ever read a book on fixing up the house of a noble family?" Harry asked.

"No."

"I mean, would using reparo work?" he asked.

She fished out her want and tried it on a damaged section of the floor. No deal. She would have gotten more progress just flicking grains of salt at the holes.

"Or another spell?"

"What spell?" Hermione asked. "You asked about a book on this. I've never even seen one."

"So we can transfigure door knobs into wombats, but we can't keep a structure from tumbling down on us?"

Hermione smiled. "I think it was candlestick holders into koalas."

"Take a picture of a koala for me," Harry said.

"I will. Somehow."

"You'll find them."

"I'm dreading that. The finding. But the fixing and the explaining. I can't even form up those words in my head," Hermione said.

He definitely didn't want her to start crying. She was his friend, but tears were no-man's-land. "You said you brought some letters?" Harry asked.

"Right." She underwent a transformation. The pre-lachrymose young woman became all business again, like she were some kind of professional post woman. Hermione went through her bag, pulled out a huge stack, and then counted them. Then she turned them over.

"Do I have to open some?" He was teasing.

A bit.

But he wanted to see if Hermione was also going to relax. Her trip to Australia was driving her crazy. Harry knew that if she was crazy for the next few days, she was going to make a lot of people crazy alongside her.

"No. You don't have to. Not for me."

She still wielded guilt pretty well.

It was far more devastating than her getting into a demanding-sort-of mode.

Harry decided to handle the letters later. He set them on the floor because there was no intact furniture still on the first floor. He supposed he could transfigure some rubbish into a table or something, but no. He hadn't been raised to think of doing everything with magic.

"What were they doing on Hogwarts today?" Harry asked.

He might have moved out, but he still cared. It was the crazy people reading the Prophet who made Harry look for safety elsewhere. Thankfully the wards on Grimmauld Place weren't as damaged as the building was. After all, his mail was still going to Hogwarts rather than coming here. Harry didn't know who'd pulled off the redirection charm, but he was glad for it.

"Professor McGonagall managed to get an enchanter in. The witch is very old, but she climbed a scaffolding and has been working on the ceiling of the Great Hall."

"Good. Hogwarts isn't really Hogwarts without that…"

She looked around the room and shook her head. "You need to hire someone like her."

"I'd love to. Give me a name."

"I didn't ask. Just don't let this place fall down on you."

He knew what it all looked like. "I'm pretty concerned, too."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"I'm going to ask for help," Harry said.

"You never do that."

"This time I am."

"So are you going to be back at Hogwarts in September?"

"I said I would if…"

"I know you better than that. That's what you said. You'll do it, too. But what would you rather do? I kind of forced you into saying yes."

She was trying to mend a strain in their friendship. At least Harry could be honest with her.

"You did. That's okay. But, I don't want to go back. I will find something else."

"Why?"

"I've never been all that good in the classroom. If something's about to chop my neck off, I can get the magic to work. If it's just for an essay, my magic is as cooperative as a tapeworm."

"Tapeworm, Harry?"

"Okay, my metaphors needs work, too."

"It was a simile."

"Hush, you. You're right, I do need some education. But I don't think Hogwarts is where I'll get it."

She wanted to argue. She wanted to tear apart every word Harry had just said. He could see it in the gritting of her muscles and the tension in her face. But she kept quiet and eventually her face and hand muscles relaxed. She didn't say whatever her first reaction was — perhaps also her second, third, and fourth.

Instead, Hermione just nodded.

"Okay. But it's an option, right? Not the best option, but it's on the list."

"It's on the list," Harry agreed. He didn't bother to remind her that it was at the very bottom of the list. A couple of blank spots waiting to be filled in, then Kingsley's offer to train as an Auror, then a whole bunch more blank spots, then Hogwarts all the way at the bottom.

It was there, but Harry knew he wouldn't be using it. He needed to find something else.

"Well, I need to go to Gringotts…."

Harry almost choked.

"What for?"

If the goblins knew that she had been involved, Harry couldn't imagine how she would take that ceremony. He didn't want Hermione to go through that, make her a Thief or a Warrior or something. She'd be puking for a day straight. Angry for years.

"Well, I needed to exchange what few galleons I have left into pounds. Money for the trip, you see."

"You bought everything for Ron and me over the last year. Least I can do is pay you back now."

"Oh, you went to Gringotts. Did they growl a lot?"

If Hermione only knew.

"Let me just suggest that you keep clear of them for a while."

"Harry…"

"I'll tell you the whole story when you get back. It's funny, I promise."

Harry would be sure to leave out the terrifying parts.

"Fine. I won't go to Gringotts if you could spot me some pounds."

Harry had taken a bunch of gold out the night before and exchanged a good amount of it into the "Muggle" currency. He could buy her a Range Rover just now.

Harry picked up the letters and started for the stairs. He was about four risers up when they made a horrific noise.

"Harry!"

Hermione shouting didn't help.

He turned and jumped down to the main floor (which made it's own horrifying kind of noise). The stairs collapsed behind Harry.

Hermione was all over Harry checking for injuries like an octopus checks a bivalve for its vulnerabilities.

He eventually fought her off — or at least convinced her he was uninjured. "I'm fine. I'm fine. I'll just float myself up to the next floor."

"Harry, you can't stay here."

"It's my house." It was something Sirius had left him, even if Sirius had hated it. "I'm going to fix it."

"Fine, fix it. But stay somewhere else for now."

"Let me get you your pounds."

She realized she wasn't going to win this argument in this particular way. That didn't stop her.

Harry floated himself to his tent, collapsed it, packed it, and then floated back down. "I guess I can set up in the kitchen."

"You don't want to go in there," Hermione said.

"Well, maybe the back yard."

That got her nodding. The house wouldn't fall down around his ears if he were sleeping outside the house. Though it might still collapse.

Harry handed Hermione two thousand pounds.

That started another argument. It was too much; it wasn't enough. She couldn't take it; Harry wouldn't take it back. They argued like silly children for several minutes before Hermione conceded.

"Thank you."

"Just don't visit Gringotts until I explain what happened… After you get back. Promise?"

"Fine. But I want the whole story."

She really was dreading her trip. Not to push on this. She knew she couldn't multitask Harry's issues along with her own.

Harry didn't expect to win many arguments in the future this easily.

Hermione interrogated Harry a bit more before she excused herself to get ready for her trip. Harry surveyed the house a bit more before he moved his tent to the back yard.

Then he had a flash of inspiration.

Harry called for Kreacher.

The aged elf appeared and said he was glad to be back at the House of Black. Harry asked about how Kreacher had been since the Battle of Hogwarts. The old elf made no complaints. Which was a considerable change from how things used to be.

"The house is in bad condition, I'm afraid," Harry said.

"May I look?" the elf asked.

"Please."

The elf was gone and back again in seconds. Harry didn't think it was possible for the large-eyed creature to look even more astounded, but Kreacher was.

"It has never looked that bad before."

Kreacher was speaking very slow and crisply, more like a butler from the Beeb than any house elf Harry had ever met. Perhaps an old house elf could learn new tricks.

Harry nodded. "Are you able — or are certain house elves — able to help repair houses?"

"Oh, no, Master Harry."

Harry thought to ask why. But, in Harry's experience, Kreacher and the late Dobby and even Winky were terrible at explaining things. Especially facts concerning their previous masters.

Best to move past this question.

"Do you know who helped repair the house in the past?"

"Well, the mistress would call one of her relatives and he would come and help perform the repairs. But nothing that looked this bad."

Harry nodded.

"Was there a book he consulted?"

"Not that I saw."

He didn't think there were all that many members of the House of Black around. Narcissa — no. Andromeda — yes, Harry would stop by soon and ask her. And see his godson, Teddy.

"Thank you, Kreacher. You can return to Hogwarts for now. Once I get Grimmauld Place fixed, would you like to return here and work?"

"Yes, Master Harry."

"Off you go for now. Let me see what I can do to get this back in shape."

The elf disappeared. No noise. Harry still couldn't get used to that. Silent movement. There was also the fact that Kreacher was much reformed and still alive.

Harry looked to the back of 12 Grimmauld Place. He didn't know what he was going to do about the place.

He thought of Hogwarts. Hagrid might know about building, that little hut of his. But he was strong enough that he may have just hauled an axe into the forest and logged his own building materials. Perhaps Professor McGonagall might know or Professor Flitwick.

Harry pondered…when he realized who really would know about construction. Arthur Weasley. If the Burrow wasn't held together by magic, Harry would eat the staircase that had just collapsed.

X-X

Harry had a tradition of not really thinking all that deeply. Get an idea, run toward it, get smacked down hard. As in his present situation, he had decided to leave Hogwarts in order to hide out from the insanity that the Prophet was creating around him. So what did he do on Day 1 of his freedom? Head to the largest, or second largest, concentration of witches and wizards in England and expect everything was going to be okay.

It was like Harry had walked into a party in full swing that stopped dead and then sucked him right inside it.

But instead of party, think construction pit, mingling zone, gossip network, and general chaos center.

There were muggleborns, freed from Umbridge's camps, moving through the atrium. They still wore their prison rags, but they were alive, barely. There were some of the surviving 'renegade Aurors' getting some kind of award — the honest kind of Ministry employees, not the crazies who'd been dressed up in the red robes under Voldemort's rule. There were reporters listening in. There was reconstruction aimed at dismantling some of Voldemort's decorating 'touches.' Like the statue of a wizard sitting on a pile of skulls and bones, little stuff like that.

Plus the atrium was filled with other people who were waiting or loitering. Perhaps people who had lost their homes. Harry had heard something about that.

Harry made his way to the security wizard and handed over his wand. Well, one of them. Phoenix feather and holly. Best not to mention the elder and thestral hair he still carried with him.

"Can you direct me to Arthur Weasley?" Harry asked.

The man had once been in a small office handling Misuse of Muggle Artifacts. Then he'd been promoted by the late Rufus Scrimgeour. Now Harry didn't know what Arthur was doing for the Ministry.

"You're Harry Potter."

Shit.

The security wizard said it about as loudly as a human voice could manage it.

Everything happening in the atrium stopped. All eyes in the atrium snapped to Harry. Like he was some rare artifact someone had just found in the dirt. Like Gryffindor's lost sandal or a golden unicorn horn.

Harry spent at least the next five minutes being grabbed, groped, squealed at, and lectured to. His cheeks hurt, on his face and the set lower down his body. His ears hurt. His head hurt. He was told about becoming a security wizard, a potion brewer, an acquirer (read, thief) of antiquities, an enchantment renewer, and about seventy other careers Harry had never heard about before.

Finally Kingsley Shacklebolt rescued Harry.

"Back off," he said in his booming voice. "Let Mr. Potter alone. He's a wizard, not a sack of cockroach clusters. Hands off."

"Merlin." Harry said. "Thank you."

"Let's get out of here. You can tell me why in the world you're here, Harry. Coming in through the main entrance. Tell me you're signing up with the Aurors."

"Not today. I was here to see Mr. Weasley."

"Arthur? Asking for Ginny's hand in marriage…"

Harry's mouth dropped open.

Then he saw that Kingsley was trying not to laugh. The bastard.

"I actually came about a rumor I heard. I understand you pardoned Dolores Umbridge as a pre-wedding gift to her," Harry said. "Wouldn't want your beautiful bride in Azkaban for your wedding night. Very poor mattresses."

Kingsley started gagging from the idea.

Then Harry laughed.

"You're an evil kid, you know," the interim Minister of Magic said.

"I've been told that. You see Mr. Weasley around this bedlam?"

"You helped cause some of this craziness. You know some people are here dropping petitions so you'll be allowed to join the Aurors."

"Please tell me that's a terrible joke."

"A hundred fifteen names across seven different petitions. So far."

Harry regretted ever sitting down for an interview with the Daily Prophet.

He regretted the easiest question in the interview: 'what will you do next?'

He really regretted fumbling his answer: 'I don't know.' Also known as being completely honest. No one really appreciated honesty any more.

Because everyone who read the interview felt some kind of obligation to tell Harry just what he should do with the rest of his life.

"You square things with Gringotts?" Kingsley asked.

After a lot of pain and humiliation…which Harry wasn't about to share in this place.

"I think so."

"You went to them and talked with them?"

Kingsley didn't believe Harry.

"We're fine. They even let me into my vault."

"Huh."

"Why?"

"I thought you were still ducking them. The goblins have sent a letter requesting my presence tonight. I thought it was about you and that blasted dragon."

"Nope."

"Any idea why they want me?" Kingsley asked.

Harry had a guess. He supposed the Order of Warriors or Society of Thieves, or whatever the mess was called, was about to have a new member. Kingsley would get to meet those Gnashing Worms.

"Nope," Harry said.

Inside he was laughing. Let Kingsley figure out what his advice was worth. 'Please go make peace with the goblins.'

"Arthur should be up on 2. Can you find your way?" Kingsley asked.

"Yeah, you stay down here and corral the crazies."

"I still say most of this is your fault. Be careful sneaking out. They'll be looking for you. They might have even called in friends."

Harry glared at Kingsley and disappeared into a lift.

X-X

Mr. Weasley was on two. In a much larger office than Harry remembered from before.

"Harry, good to see you. Ron said you'd left Hogwarts."

"Well, I thought it was time to put some attention into my house. I discovered it was really trashed."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that," Mr. Weasley said. He blinked a few times and then reached over to pat Harry on his back. Like Harry were an overgrown infant in need of a burping.

Perhaps having so many children had done things to Mr. Weasley's mind.

If Harry needed burping, he thought he could accomplish it on his own. Instead, what he needed was advice.

"Any ideas?" Harry asked.

"On what?"

"How to repair a magical house."

The Burrow had been very homey, but some kind of magic had to have kept it standing.

"Oh. Well, I'm not the handy one in my family. My father was. Then my older brother Owen got the bug. He helps me repair the Burrow whenever we needed to in the past."

"Can you put me in touch with your brother?"

Harry was sure he saw tears in Mr. Weasley's eyes now. Oh no, what had he said wrong now? First Hermione, now Mr. Weasley. Merlin.

"He's in Saint Mungo's."

Harry didn't follow.

"Mr brother Owen isn't well at all," Mr. Weasley continued.

"I'm sorry about that."

"Me, too. He came afoul of someone at the Ministry. A snatcher team or some of the really dangerous people who claimed to be Hitwizards. They still don't know what the spell is."

"Merlin."

"Yeah. I lost a son and I expect I will lose a brother, too. It's been a bad couple of weeks."

Harry felt like an ass for complaining about a destroyed house. But he still had a house problem.

"For all of us. You more than most," Harry said.

"It's been hard seeing all the celebrating. Listening to all the claims of Imperius-this and Help-me-that."

"Then the little sideshow with the Prophet and my mess in it."

"I'm really sorry about them, Harry. Wizards and witches are the best kind of people, but we do take things too far."

Mr. Weasley had never said something so true in his life. Harry had received more than one hundred letters from absolute strangers who were convinced they knew Harry well enough to advise him on his life.

"So, how do I learn about house repair?"

"Well, that's what Hogwarts is for. To teach you everything you and your family will need to know for the rest of your life."

It was so frustrating that people told him these things well after he already should have known. Everyone seemed to forget that Harry had grown up away from the wizarding world. He was like a tourist in these parts.

"Was there a class I was supposed to take?"

"Well, no. But the library. Your family — oh, right — your family should have helped you to figure out a couple of things you might want to study on the side."

"You mean the library at Hogwarts has books on magical construction?"

Mr. Weasley scratched his head.

"You know, I think those were family spells. My grandfather's. Owen spent a lot of time with them. I never did. I'm sorry, Harry."

"Is there anyone I could hire?"

"I don't know," Arthur Weasley said. "Up until now, I've never had to worry about the question."

Harry nodded. "Thanks for your help."

"I'll ask around. Maybe a few folks in the Ministry will know. At least I can find out if there's an office that licenses builders or something."

"That'd be great."

Harry retreated to the lift and then thought about slinking through the Atrium again. He applied some of the invisibility spells he now knew.

"It's just a simple question. Who can help me rebuild my house? I can make myself invisible, but I can't fix a house."

Harry doubted he was going to get an answer from the Ministry. He was in need of a good builder. Or rebuilder. He'd settle for a carpenter or even a handyman. It didn't sound like any of that was forthcoming.

X-X

Harry stood in the back yard of Grimmauld Place. He had his tent and a propane grill. He wasn't going to starve, but he also couldn't just move back in to the shambles. What was he going to do now?

He wasn't going begging at Gringotts. Those little humanoids were plumb crazy. He could see if the Hogwarts library had anything…

Or he could just ask someone who knew what the library held. After all, he'd worked at the place for decades.

"Damn Dumbledore."

The ghost popped into existence. Unlike when Harry had seen him last, Dumbledore's evanescent form had a slight reddish tint to it. Plus the ghost appeared to be bent over and at least mimicking the act of vomiting.

"Where am I… Oh, Harry, thank Merlin you rescued me from the goblins. That Red Stone Wine even affects the dead. I never knew that. It's worse for a ghost, I think."

Harry wanted to laugh, but didn't.

"You working off your years of missed summer reunions?"

"It's horrible. How could you have left me to them?"

Harry kept an even look on his face. If Dumbledore didn't get the parallelism, Harry wasn't going to explain the wrongness of 'leaving someone' in a place where they shouldn't.

"I needed to ask you about the Hogwarts library."

"Harry, I'm a ghost. Not a question answering service."

"Damn Dumbledore."

The ghost wavered and then collapsed to his knees again.

It really did cause the old, err, new ghost a good deal of discomfort.

"Professor?"

"What do you want to know, Harry?"

He was defeated for now, but Dumbledore was a wily opponent. Usually.

So Harry laid out his problem with Grimmauld Place. "Are there any books at Hogwarts that can help me?"

"I don't think so."

"So how does anyone get and keep a house in this crazy country?"

"I never had to maintain a house, I'm afraid. Otherwise I could help you."

"Okay, point me in the right direction," Harry asked.

"I'm really stumped. I lived in family property for a number of years. Then I was in Hogwarts until my death. I guess you could talk to my brother, Aberforth, about how he maintains his pub in Hogsmeade. If he does, in fact, do any maintenance there."

Harry shrugged. He'd expected better of Dumbledore, master of all magics (except the useful ones).

"Is that all?"

"Harry, please release me. I'm supposed to be on my next great adventure. Not getting ambushed by you and goblins and asked questions I prefer not to answer…"

Just for that, Harry resolved to keep dragging Dumbledore back. The old bastard had a lot of penance to perform. Perhaps he'd even gift Dumbledore back to the goblins from time to time. Had Dumbledore pissed off any other groups? The centaurs maybe or the merpeople?

"For how few questions you answered in life, consider this a bit of repayment. Well overdue. Okay?"

"Harry…"

"You should consider brief detours back to the land of the living part of your next great adventure. I'm not going to forget how to summon you. Even if you're not terribly helpful."

The ghost-Dumbledore was really unhappy. He couldn't wriggle his way free of this. "True names, damn them. It's bad enough the crap I have to put up with from my mother and sister whenever they latch onto me. And then there's Bathilda Bagshot and that damned Gellert. If anyone should have a True Name of Damn, it should be that boy."

Gellert Grindelwald + Boy = Does Not Compute. Murdering Psycho, Check. Gellert as a Young Man, No. Double no.

Maybe Harry didn't want to continue summoning ghost-Dumbledore. He sometimes learned things he could never unlearn.

"Off you go," Harry said. "I guess I need to track down your brother."

"Thank you, Harry. I really am sorry how it all turned out."

"Just as you planned," Harry said with a bit of bitterness.

"Well, no one ever said I was a good planner. They just assumed the Headmaster of a school had a bit of logic. Not particularly. But ambition I had by the tonne."


	3. Chapter 3

X-X

Chapter 3

X-X

Harry walked out of the tent and stepped on something that crinkled. He looked down and found a letter an owl had dropped for him.

He knew the handwriting. Harry was glad Andromeda had thought to write. She was one of the people who had once visited the dark, secret-holding pile at Grimmauld Place. Maybe she'd know something about repairing it. If the Blacks trusted their own daughters and nieces with the details.

Harry opened the letter. Andromeda asked for some help with little Teddy. Harry pushed back his plan to convince the only (possibly) sane Dumbledore for some help.

Harry apparated into the backyard of the house Andromeda Tonks had moved to a week earlier. Her own house, the one she'd owned with her late husband, was more than a bit overwhelming to her.

"Hello the house," Harry called out before rapping on the door frame.

Andromeda snapped the door open and yanked Harry inside.

"It's not just the hair now," she said to him. She looked scared, haunted. This was a house in a non-magical neighborhood, but Harry wondered if the place was haunted or something. Maybe Peeves' less pleasant younger cousin.

"What?"

"Teddy. It's not just the hair."

Harry's godson, like his late mother, was a metamorphmagus. He had already worked out incredible control over his hair. The young wizard seemed to prefer the most garish colors. Reds and blues.

Andromeda dragged Harry up to the second floor and shoved Harry inside.

She disappeared down the stairs to the first floor.

"What in the world…"

Harry had always known women were crazy. Witches were no different. Now it seemed that age had no role in the mess. People didn't age out of their crazy.

Harry looked around for whatever he was supposed to see.

Nothing.

It was just a room.

Then he heard some noise coming from the side, between a dresser and the wall.

Harry didn't startle easy, but he did startle at that. There was a little baby — Teddy — on the floor smiling up at Harry. The hair was rainbow-as-seen-by-the-colorblind. The face, though. Ack! The face wasn't Teddy's.

The little wizard obviously remembered his mother.

So well that he could do an incredibly accurate rendition of Nymphadora Tonks. At least as she'd usually appeared. With a metamorphmagus, who knew what was real and what wasn't?

No wonder Andromeda looked like she had gone insane.

Perhaps it was hard enough raising a grandchild — the memories and all. But then they weren't just memories. They were flesh and blood.

Like someone taunting her.

"I know you didn't mean to rattle her, Teddy. But could you change back?"

Teddy hadn't started talking yet. Harry knew that well. But he assumed his godson could understand some English.

Harry crouched down in front of the baby. Teddy smiled up at him, then went down on all fours and began crawling.

Harry scooped Teddy up and the young wizard laughed at him. A few moments later, Harry was looking at a version of his own face.

"Oh, you silly little mimic."

The hair cycled through colors, too. But there remained a big Harry and a little Harry for a couple of minutes. The Tonks-face didn't seem to be coming back.

Harry took Teddy downstairs.

"Andromeda?" Harry called out.

"In the kitchen."

"I think he's better. Or more handsome. Now he looks like me."

"Better than me or Ted or Remus or…" She didn't finish the thought.

Harry carried Teddy into the kitchen at the rear of the house. He set the young wizard on the table. The metamorph clapped once, made a sound like "Ba," and then promptly shifted his hair and visible skin so he carried the table's grain and color.

"Oh," Harry said.

This was more than just a face thing, too.

This was way outside of Harry's realm of expertise.

"It's not just the hair. It's not just the face. He's mimicking. If I put him on the couch, he takes on the pattern. I didn't like the pattern to start with, but it makes him look like he's got some sort of spotted disease."

Harry knew where the couch had come from. Remus. It had been in the apartment he and Tonks had shared during her pregnancy. Harry had never been there and Andromeda hadn't explained why it suddenly appeared in her own house — and then made the move to this place.

Harry understood, though.

She couldn't stand pity. She also couldn't let the ugly thing go. A belonging, even a horrible one, from her daughter's life.

Harry waved at Teddy. The boy squealed with laughter. Then the boy changed again. The face was Andromeda but the color of skin and hair was very close to the pale yellow wallpaper in the kitchen.

Harry tried not to laugh.

"I think I need to bind him."

"What?" Harry asked.

"Before he hurts himself."

Harry wasn't following. Another bit of culture he didn't understand after being in it for seven years.

"His magic is so young. So fragile. His hair has always cycled, but now the boy is playing straight chameleon." Andromeda stopped for a moment. She wasn't really talking to Harry or Teddy. She was trying to explain, justify, this to herself.

"My daughter," here her voice broke, "we had to bind her until a few months before we sent her to Hogwarts. I guess that's why she was always clumsy. I don't know. She didn't have those years to adjust."

The conversation sent chills down Harry's neck.

"I cut her off from part of her magic for ten years. To help her. I don't know that I did any good, Harry."

This particular dilemma wasn't about Teddy at all. But a much earlier decision. Still, Harry was here to offer his help. Even if he didn't like the topic. Even if he couldn't change the past.

"Binding, is that common?" Harry asked.

Andromeda flushed, but nodded.

"Bind a baby for showing off too much magic?"

"Well, yes."

"Can it hurt them?" Andromeda thought it could have impaired Tonks. Could it hurt Teddy?

"I don't know," Andromeda said, like the question had never occurred to her. "I just know that too much magic at too young an age…"

Damned either way. No magic from a baby and the child might be labeled a squib. Too much and the caring pureblood parents slap on a spell — or was it an enchantment? Harry didn't know and didn't really want to know at this point.

No wonder the purebloods had trouble making magical babies. A bit of inbreeding, threatening those adjudged weak, tossing magic around at infants who were too strong: it was a surprise that any of the fragile, little darlings survived to demonstrate magic.

Harry didn't say that to Andromeda, but perhaps his face was a bit more expressive than he'd wanted.

"Did your husband have questions about the idea?" Harry asked.

It wasn't the gentlest way to bring up the past.

Andromeda just nodded. She didn't explain what those questions were or how they'd been answered, if they had.

At least Ted Tonks hadn't believed every superstition he'd learned, or heard about, at Hogwarts.

Teddy's grandmother was quiet for a while, thoughtful-quiet rather than angry. Andromeda didn't bring up the topic again during Harry's visit. He spent his time coaxing new faces, colors, and patterns out of Teddy.

Harry couldn't see how any of this — face changes, hair color changes, and the like — could hurt the baby. Something done in fright, something an attack might force him to do, that was different. Harry remembered vaguely the first time he'd apparated as a child. That could have been very bad.

But Teddy was happy, smiling, laughing. Even when he mimicked the pattern of the carpet or the way that Remus Lupin's mane of hair had looked. The baby remembered where he came from and seemed to enjoy everything.

Harry wasn't so sure Andromeda, or anyone else, should take that away from him.

Harry stayed until aafter four and then remembered he was trying to find a way to repair Grimmauld Place. So he described his problem to Andromeda.

She just shook her head.

"No?"

"I never married into a pureblood house, Harry. Remember Ted. We lived mostly Muggle."

"Right."

"Magical houses. Yeah, I definitely didn't learn much there."

"Much?"

"Well, each house was different."

"Oh." He said it, but he didn't mean it. He had no moment of revelation.

"Built at different times, in different places. It doesn't seem like it now, but magic changes a bit over the years. Folks prefer to use newer magics when they're better than the old ones. So a really old house would work differently from a newer one, like Grimmauld Place."

Harry thought about that. Made sense, but it still didn't help him.

"Anything will help."

"Alright. Some are strengthened with enchantments. Some with wards. Some were built by family. Some were contracted to the dwarves or, if it's a really old pile, the goblins. Each one is probably full of secrets."

Which was both helpful and frustrating.

"You never got classes on this stuff?" Harry asked. "Some class they taught you, but discontinued?"

"No."

"Your family didn't give you tutors?"

"I did have tutors. Piano, the flute, Abraxan riding."

"Oh."

Andromeda laughed. "I'm sorry. Giving a woman information on how to repair a house. You have a lot more regard for the House of Black than I do. I was expected to master a bit of music, a bit of poetry, a lot of magic, how to brew certain potions. Yes, love and admiration potions, mostly."

"Right."

"I was not expected to become a plumber."

Harry swung a now-sleeping Teddy from one leg to another. He was still very small, but the weight eventually made an impact anyway.

"You ever hear anything about the makeup of Grimmauld Place?"

"Well, my crazy relatives said plenty. But they also lied. I had one aunt who claimed that the dwarves built it, but you'll see that it's part of a block that mostly houses Muggles, err, the non-magical. It had to be built the normal way, I'm sure. But that doesn't mean someone didn't do some extra work after they moved in. Ripped down some decoration here and there and inscribed something, carved a rune. Something."

"So you can't even trust what you were told."

"I wouldn't," Andromeda said.

So Harry laid out his plan to look for Aberforth Dumbledore. Andromeda laughed at Harry, but didn't attempt to dissuade him.

"Who knows what knowledge the Dumbledores tucked away."

Harry agreed with that.

"Um, about Teddy."

"Yeah?"

"Let's talk about it again. Before you know, you do anything."

"I'm okay. I'm fine. I was just afraid. Superstitious."

"I want to talk about it again," Harry said. He didn't have guardianship of his godson, they both knew that, but Harry could interject himself where ever he liked. Where ever Andromeda let him. She wouldn't have called him over about this unless she had doubts.

"Okay. But you already talked me out of it."

She sounded like a wet bag of guilt. Harry set Teddy down on the couch, gave Andromeda a hug, and then left. He didn't have any other words. He had not a bit of wisdom to offer, neither to explain his vehemence or to lessen the guilt Andromeda already felt about proposing for Teddy what she had once done to her daughter. Binding.

Harry would have to help keep the young wizard safe, also balance that to avoid keeping him from being spoiled. An overly indulgent grandmother could do as much damage as an overly severe one, Harry decided.

X-X

Harry arrived in Hogsmeade a bit before five. It was warm and windless and quiet on the street. However, it was a different story inside the Hogshead, the grimy pub that Aberforth Dumbledore ran.

Everyone Harry had expected to see on the street outside or in the other shops was inside the pub. Scrumming around the bar or one of the tables where some game-of-chance was in play. Poker, did wizards play poker or had they created their own thing?

Harry glanced that way, couldn't decide.

"Oy!"

Harry turned to the bar.

Aberforth waved Harry over. At least he didn't shout out the word 'Potter' and give away the game. Harry moved that way and his hand shot out in time so he didn't get smacked in the face with a dirty apron.

Was throwing stained clothing at people a thing to do in Hogsmeade?

"You're drafted. Short pours on the firewhiskey," the barkeeper said.

"What?"

"The Prophet said you're trying out careers. This here's the glamorous world of bar tending. Get back here and start helping out. We've got a lot of dry throats in the house tonight."

This Aberforth didn't sound a bit like the Aberforth Harry had known before, like the one who'd helped Harry sneak into Hogwarts just before the Battle of Hogwarts. This one was all business, almost to the point he didn't recognize Harry at all. Or at least the help he'd provided to Harry a few weeks earlier.

"Well, I needed to ask you a question…."

"Work hard and maybe I'll even pay you, kiddo."

Some of the drunker folks in the scrum seemed to enjoy that. Or perhaps it was a comment on how unlikely that was.

Dumbledore had to be taking in knuts and sickles by the bucketful. What with how many folks were mobbed up around the bar.

"Sir…"

Dumbledore turned back to the bottle in his hand and the pours he needed to make.

What was it with mysterious Dumbledores? Damn. He needed to talk to this Dumbledore because the other one, ghost that he was, was even more damned useless.

Harry was just a guy in search of home improvement advice. This sucked.

Harry looked at the apron in his hand. How did it get blood on it? Or did these folks order mixed drinks, Bloody Mary-type things. Aunt Petunia had been known to knock back a few of those at a brunch.

No, it was probably blood.

Damn all these Dumbledores. Harry wasn't getting what he wanted unless he played this game.

"Yeah, okay," Harry said.

Perhaps there'd be a lull in the service soon, then Harry could ask his questions and evacuate crazyville.

"Put the apron on. Trust me, kid."

Harry tied on the apron but took a moment to get into motion. He really didn't want to do this. This kind of crap was sure to make the Prophet, wasn't it? Harry wanted a low profile so here he was out in front of a bunch of drunk idiots.

If Aberforth didn't know anything about construction techniques…

Harry hoped for at least a direction to search next. All of Hogsmeade looked in decent repair. Okay, there were slumping walls and imperfect roof-lines. But no major failures, no huge gaps in the slate. The place looked old, but neglectfully maintained. Loved and ignored.

That meant someone knew something. If this Dumbledore didn't know the information himself, he could at least point someone out of the crowd.

"Got glasses drying out, kiddo. Don't forget to get the bronze or silver up front."

"I don't know how much stuff costs," Harry said.

"They do. Plus I've got my eye on the thieves. Just take what they push at you. I'll force them to settle up if there are problems."

As if he expected problems. The younger Dumbledore brother, well worn and battered, looked like he'd seen quite a few fights in his life.

Great.

Harry got behind the bar and started pouring. No butterbeer for this crowd. Every one of them jokingly paid Harry. He swept all the coins into a pocket in his apron.

He looked at the bottles. The hard, cheap stuff. Not even Ogden's. The off-label stuff. Maybe Dumbledore distilled it in his bathtub.

The hours passed, the regulars got drunker. Their sober friends arrived through the door and tried their hardest to catch up. Harry also discovered that the rumor that the Hogshead didn't wash its glasses was probably true. Yuck.

Three hags — sisters, maybe — who had three teeth between them tried to get Harry's floo address. Yuck.

He wound up having to concoct nothing more complicated than a gilly water. Still smelled nasty, like throwing a bunch of sea weed into well-soiled bathwater and then charging for the end result. Yuck.

As the place got fuller, the room filled with smoke. It was early summer, who was running the fireplace?

In any event, the main room was smoky, like it had a dozen fires roaring and no chimneys. It was loud. It was dark and sooty and unnerving. Harry got to the point where he couldn't even see the far wall and he wasn't even imbibing the cheap, though not watery, hooch.

The lull in the business — that never happened. Harry should have guessed that the place would get busier as the night wore on. Was there a wizard or hag in Scotland who didn't stop in for at least a wee dram?

The twilight gave way to darker night and the bar became even busier. Harry wondered if more than one patron had vampiric leanings. No one asked for blood, but there was no way teeth that prominent were natural. Harry didn't inquire further.

Aberforth somehow managed to sling his rotgut as fast as folks asked for it while also getting in a half-dozen conversations. That was years of experience right there.

Harry had trouble enough just pouring the correct, foul potable into the correct dirty glass.

He was sweating and his body seemed to be charring from all the smoke in the room. He was managing but he was also looking forward to the last call. Then maybe Aberforth might talk.

The old guy had better know something.

Harry wondered when this bar closed. It had better not go to dawn. He was beginning to despair of emptying another bottle that smelled of some cleaning product, strong and abrasive.

Everything changed when the fight started. There was a flash of red light and the sound of wood breaking.

Aberforth was over the bar in a second. For an old piece of hirsute leather, he could move.

Harry just stood stock-still.

"Don't tell me you came in here without your wand, Potter," the unhappy barkeeper said.

That woke him up. Normally he responded to trouble, any trouble. But after being smoked out for the last few hours, he was more than drowsy and cotton-minded.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Wade in there and talk them down. Calming words…"

"Really?"

"No, you idiot, stun them before they break all my furniture again. I've used so many reparo spells that I think they are mostly magic now, very little wood. Just look at them wrong and they break."

So Harry did as asked. Pouring drinks one minute, playing magical bouncer the next.

He walked around the counter and started throwing stunners at the people who had wands drawn — or those who more enjoyed using fists.

Harry got five down before the crowd turned on him.

One punch grazed his shoulder, but some drunk idiot managed to head butt Harry. Now Harry understood how blood could get on a barkeeper's apron.

Harry stunned two more and then attempted to get his nose to stop imitating an overrunning stream.

Aberforth kept stunning and finally had a pile twice as large as Harry's.

Some war veteran Harry was.

Couldn't even put down a minor riot in a smoky pub.

Aberforth started going through the pile of the stunned hags and wizards on the floor. He also looked mournfully around the room. There were three chairs and one table left whole. Everything else was the consistency of match sticks.

"Ah, him again."

Aberforth kicked the young man a few times in the arm.

Harry recognized the drunk, but incapacitated man. Seamus Finnegan, what a specimen of Gryffindor bravery. Drunk and belligerent. Not Harry's favorite person even after sharing a dorm with him for years. The first Gryffindor to doubt Harry and the last one to apologize. A snake in a sheep's clothing.

"Okay, the first fight of the evening is also last call."

Didn't have regular hours here, figured. Just wait until the fights start and then clear the place out.

Turns out that Aberforth didn't need to make the announcement. There were just the stunned folks, Harry, and Aberforth left. Everyone else had already gotten the message.

"Let's levitate them into the alley. Come on, take three or four at a time if you can manage it."

"You're not going to sober them up or something."

"They want top quality service, they came in the wrong bar. I might do a bit more if it were snowing out. Not a lot of snow in June, though."

"Right."

Harry did as he was asked. He made sure to bury Seamus at the bottom of the pile. Perhaps someone else, one of the hags, would puke on him as the stunners failed.

"Took your time, didn't you?" Aberforth asked, mocking Harry a bit.

"I haven't mastered moving four stunned bodies at a time."

"Well, now you have something to put on your list. A skill you still need."

As if.

Harry unknotted the apron and threw it on the bar. Let his blood mix with all the slopped-around booze up there. Better than laundry detergent, right?

"I originally came to ask you a question."

"I run a bar, not a question service."

"Well, I thought you might be helpful. I didn't know you were going to draft me into pouring all night."

"You'll need to burn those clothes and take a long shower."

Aberforth laughed.

"The smell of smoke won't come out. Trust me."

"Why was it so damned smoky in here?"

Aberforth shrugged.

Harry wondered about that. He'd have to think about the smoke in this place. Darker than that crap Trelawney used, but there was a scent to it that was more than just smoke.

"You make everyone new work for you?" Harry asked.

"Sure thing. I recruit anyone I don't recognize as a degenerate regular."

"Why don't you try hiring staff?" Harry asked.

"I do. I hire a lot of staff. Unfortunately most of the ones I sign up quickly become regulars, helping themselves to the firewhiskey. You came back five or six times, you'd be on the other side of the bar. I'm sure of it."

"That allows you to never clean your glasses?"

"Why waste time?" Aberforth said.

"I'm going to try to forget this ever happened."

"Hell, it'll be in the Prophet tomorrow. 'Harry Potter Interns at Hogshead, Ends Up Stunning All Patrons, Degenerate Drunken Malcontents.' Catchy, huh? Maybe they'll let Skeeter write the article. She'll claim you were naked and drunk, too."

"Merlin."

"Her predecessor in the gossip column once claimed that I liaised with… Well, that's well in the past. Tell me why Harry Potter stumbles into my pub when he doesn't have some nefarious purpose."

"Maybe I do."

"Oh?"

"I have a house falling around my ears and no idea how to repair it."

"A house? Some pile in a suburb?"

"No, the former House of Black."

"Like Orion Black, Arcturus Black?"

"And Sirius Black, yes."

"Well, I know a bit of maintenance for this wreck. But a pile like that. I don't know what to tell you."

"Know anyone who would?" Harry pushed.

"The Blacks were a secretive bunch. Crazies for as long as I've been alive. Bellatrix Black and the others. You're going to want an expert."

"Please."

"The problem is this. I don't know of any still alive. The two wars were really hard on us, the underclass. A few of the nobles died, but Aurors died like flies, some Healers, shopkeepers, the spell minders and repairers, the people who do the real work. As you can see from folks letting loose now. Still, I'll put out a word. I don't think the masters survived in this country. You okay searching in France?"

"If I have to," Harry said.

"Well, let me see if I can find any apprentices or journeymen over here first. You care to stop in tomorrow?"

Harry shook his head. "Maybe you could send me the name by owl."

Aberforth began laughing, coughing, and laughing some more.

Harry showed himself out.

His curiosity — one of the parts of his personality that got him into the most trouble — didn't let him just apparate away. Harry walked back behind the pub and heard some folks beginning to move around. The stunners were already failing.

Harry watched them a few moments.

Then a woman dressed in a tartan bathrobe came out with a nobbly broom and began attacking the layabouts. Like an OCD housewife going after dust.

"Enough of that. Hooligans, out. This was a perfectly nice alley until all of you showed up. Take your vomit with you."

Harry watched and tried not to laugh.

Then he recognized just who was wielding the broom. Professor McGonagall. Away from Hogwarts.

"Professor?" Harry called out before he could think better of himself.

X-X

Harry sat inside a private home not all that far away from the Hogshead.

Harry was often a bit slow on the uptake. But he did gather that the house didn't belong to the Professor. Rather to her boyfriend. Harry's skin crawled at the idea of McGonagall with a boyfriend in Hogsmeade. Sure, in theory she was just like any other person. Wanted someone to talk to and for…other needs, but Harry had been her student until very recently. It was more than he needed to know.

He'd tried to walk away after he blurted out the word professor. Her glare — the one she had really perfected — had him sitting on a sofa in a house he'd never been in before.

"Carousing in dingy pubs now, Potter?"

"I got shanghaied. I wanted to ask Mr. Dumbledore a question and he put me to work."

"Didn't pay you, did he?"

"No."

"The cheap beetle."

Harry hazarded a smile.

"So you haven't asked about Silvanus."

"Who?"

"He used to teach Care of Magical Creatures. Retired because he'd lost his limbs and the nitwits at St. Mungo's refused to use 'new' techniques on him. He retired and traveled to a dragon preserve in Romania where a healer got her hands on him. He's back to two arms and two legs."

Harry vaguely remembered the professor who'd preceded Hagrid.

"It's your life, Professor."

"Yes, Potter, it is. But that's never done a thing to stunt a student's curiosity."

"Former student."

"Ah, so you won't be rejoining us in September?"

She sounded resigned rather than unhappy.

"I don't think so," Harry said.

"Hopefully you're not thinking of a career at the Hogshead. Did that old scoundrel promise to sell it to you?"

"No, no. I wanted to ask him about building maintenance, repair."

"Him? Aberforth Dumbledore maintaining anything? I'd eat my hat."

Of course, she wasn't wearing one.

Still Harry opened up to his former Head of House. He had a broken house. Had a broken godson. He didn't know enough to help with either problem.

"Well, I feel better about you now," the professor said.

"What?"

"You're supposed to be deciding on your future and here I found you behind a pub watching a bunch of drunks puking on each other. But it turns out you're trying to do something good for your family."

"Trying. Failing."

Which was better than doing nothing at all.

"Your career counseling. I think I let you down there, Potter."

Career counseling. That was years ago. What was his professor talking about now?

"It went in a Ministry direction, right?"

"Yes. Auror."

"Right. So I automatically assumed you'd require NEWTs. I remember that irritating toad was there. Otherwise I would have discussed some of your other options."

"Like magical construction?"

"That's not to much a career as a life skill, but yes."

Finally.

"What book do I need and where can I buy it?" Harry asked.

"Book?"

"A class then?"

McGonagall smiled.

"No, nothing so formal."

"Not a big fancy book…"

"There are the Practical Pamphlets," the professor said.

"What?"

"For our students who are more practically minded, kind of like you, Harry, we have career options that don't depend on NEWTs."

"Oh?"

"The pamphlets explain how to do the base-level spells. Some are for folks who run shops. Security spells, anti-theft charms, cleaning spells. Some are for maintenance wizards…"

"I want that pamphlet," Harry said.

"Come see me at Hogwarts tomorrow. I have a stack in my office."

"I wish I'd known about this before."

"We used to leave them in the common rooms. Except Slytherin, nothing so common for them. That changed maybe ten years ago."

"Right before I came," Harry said. He saw Dumbledore's finger prints everywhere. He might just need a new way to torture a ghost.

"Well. Hmm. I guess so." She was embarrassed now.

"It's alright. I'm collecting everything I need after the fact. It's annoying, but not life threatening." He'd already dealt with life threatening.

Like a year living out of a tent with no money and no food, being chased by evil wizards who took a large deal of pleasure in murder and torture.

"The house I need to repair is quite old. The House of Black. Will these spells work…"

"Potter, if you were listening, I told you the pamphlets include the base spells. There are instructions for getting further tuition."

Harry wondered about that. Hogwarts not teaching something because it was too blue collar. Very snotty, he thought.

"So I need the pamphlet and then further instruction." Harry felt deflated. That would take a good deal of time.

"I may be able to refer you to a few people. I still have good relations with my late husband's family. There are a few gifted enchanters among them, though they live abroad."

Time, time, time. That was what Harry felt like he didn't have.

"Alright. I'll just be off then."

"Potter, you're going to sit and you're going to tell me your plans for the summer."

Always the professor, wasn't she? Or had she been named Headmistress? He didn't get the chance to ask.

"What about…"

Harry nodded toward a different part of the house.

"Silvanus has patience unlike some young wizards I'm familiar with."

He was forced to endure a second counseling session, perhaps more wide ranging than the original career session had been. Unfortunately it was late and they were both tired. Harry was eventually allowed to excuse himself and return to the comforts of his tent.

Grimmauld Place was still a disaster zone.


	4. Chapter 4

X-X

Chapter 4

X-X

Harry woke up, stumbled out of his tent, and then looked at the sky. Early morning. Way too early for Harry to wake up Aberforth at the Hogshead. Perhaps he could set out for Hogwarts? He was curious about that set of pamphlets he was promised.

He admitted that he was obsessed about the house.

He could definitely do different things with his time right now, but he found he rather wanted a secure roof over his head. Also a staircase that didn't need to be held up with magic. Nails were good enough for him, he thought.

With the tent he could live in the backyard in some comfort for years, but it wouldn't feel right. He had a house that was unlivable.

So he wouldn't be able stop thinking about it until it was fixed.

Harry had a bad track record with any problem he stumbled across, whether an alchemical stone or a hissing basilisk wandering the halls of Hogwarts or a supposed mass murderer stalking Harry or Draco Malfoy doing things that were unreasonably suspicious.

He couldn't let things go.

The house.

The damned house.

It was about all he had left that Harry associated with Sirius Black. A shard of mirror and a Firebolt broom and this house. Oh, and Kreacher.

Harry went back inside Number Twelve. He did another test of all of the spells he could think of. Not one of them worked.

Maybe the pamphlets McGonagall mentioned would help, maybe not. Or someone could produce a recommendation for a construction expert. But Harry needed to be able to better describe his problem. He couldn't just keep stumbling around saying, 'my house is broken, please help.'

Harry pulled up a damaged floorboard and then worked a bit to bring up an otherwise undamaged bit. He looked them over. Maybe he should carry it back to show to a few people, like Aberforth and Professor McGonagall. They'd be able to see things Harry might not. He looked at some of the details on the walls.

No, he needed sturdy ceilings and floors and stairs first. Restoring the other details could wait.

What else?

Should he pry apart some of the fallen stairs, take that along?

He walked over and examined everything.

He wouldn't even know where to start trying to dismantle that hulk.

Harry shifted the planks in his hands and felt something under his fingers. Then he looked at both faces of the damaged piece, didn't see anything. He ran his fingers over the plank again. There it was again. Faint. Like an engraving that had been worn down.

Great.

He'd found something suspicious inside the headquarters of one of the most paranoid dark wizarding families. What did this thing do, summon doxies to invade the house, keep folks on their toes? Or maybe it drove the inhabitants crazy. Plenty of evidence for that considering the family tree.

Harry checked out the longer, undamaged plank.

It also had something engraved in it. On the side that had faced down. Tricky. Also worrisome.

Hermione should be on her way to Australia.

She was his general problem solver, but also unavailable. Who else did Harry know?

Professor McGonagall, but Harry was going to consult her anyway. Bill Weasley, maybe. He could summon Dumbledore's ghost, but the spirit wouldn't have fingers with which to touch the engraving.

Perhaps not so helpful.

He needed a longer list of people who knew things. A much longer list.

Harry decided to go and see Bill.

He apparated…

…and found he was nowhere near Shell Cottage. Harry guessed he'd confused the destination part of the process. He checked himself over for missing elbows and earlobes.

Nothing out of place.

Harry looked around. He was somewhere between the Burrow and the Lovegood place.

"Ah, you, the Potter boy."

Harry turned. Luna's father was right there.

"I was just about to call the repair wizard. But you must have known I needed some assistance."

Oh, no.

"Mr. Lovegood, I'm not a repair wizard."

"No. You are rather young. About the right height, but too light. Yes, far too thin. I see. Clothes look shabby-correct, though. You've been sleeping in a gutter, I take it. You sure you're not a repairer's apprentice?"

"I'm sure."

"Then why have you come?"

He seemed considerably changed since Harry had met him at a wedding and then tried to get assistance from him during the war.

Perhaps Luna wasn't the only one to spend some time with Voldemort's people. Had he been sent to Azkaban?

Xenophilius Lovegood + Dementors = ?

"Oh, I see," Lovegood said.

Harry hadn't said a thing. Maybe the shadow he'd cast had allowed Lovegood to perform a Trelawney-like reading. Or the way his hair looked resembled a grim or a augurey or something. What in the world was he going to assume? What in the world was he going to say?

Harry girded himself.

"My daughter, Luna. My biggest treasure."

Nope, not even close. "Uh?"

"A young wizard usually brings flowers when he calls on a young witch," the older Lovegood said. "Not a bouquet of wood. I guess I'm behind the fashions."

Harry shook his head. "Well, it's not a bouquet. It's actually something I need examined…" The more he tried to explain, the worse it got. Between Harry being caught short and Xenophilius being a bit more crazy than usual.

"So you're not here to see Luna?"

"No."

"Well, she didn't mention you were coming so I was confused for a moment."

For an eternity, maybe. "I'd be glad to see her, but I was actually trying to head to Bill Weasley's."

"Nothing wrong with being lost. Now, Bill, nice boy. Good with runes."

"I know."

"Plays at curse breaking. He'd be better off sticking with runes. Curse breakers have a way of losing their heads — or at least their necks."

"I understand it's dangerous."

"Well, the traps, yes. A bit. A lot of them get old, get weak. Worn from the centuries, but still a little dangerous. It's the employers you really have to watch for. Someone who wants to rob a tomb but can't do it himself — that's not a person you should ever trust."

That didn't sound quite right.

"I thought he worked for the goblins…"

Maybe Bill really shouldn't trust a pack of goblins. Harry knew considerably more about them now. He wouldn't trust them.

"They're facilitators. Matchmakers."

"No. I'm sure Bill said he worked for them."

"Well, he may actually believe that. But it isn't true."

Uh, oh, was this going to be something like Cornelius Fudge eating goblin pies or something? The late Scrimgeour as a vampire or a werewolf or a werelion?

"If wizards are involved in financing a dig, the goblins just round up some wizards and witches and set them loose."

"Oh." That almost made sense.

"They take a large chunk of the fee, say it's a goblin nation project, but that's just a convenient lie. Someone still has to hand over the gold eventually."

The tricky little green guys said Bill worked for them, and paid Bill, but considered him as something else. The goblin equivalent of cannon fodder.

"So when goblins do things?" Harry asked.

If goblins were doing a dig for themselves, would they have wizards along at all?

"If goblins do things… The gold to pay for it is goblin gold and everyone involved is a goblin. They'll help wizards hire mercenaries or protect wizard gold for a fee, but they don't associate with wizards. Ever. No goblin teachers for wizard students. No goblins working next to wizards in the pit of a dig."

Well, maybe not ever. It sounded like shady folks, Harry included, were included in one of their honorary societies. But that might be another little trick of their society. Keep the dangerous wizards close, but keep the really dangerous ones even closer. Had Harry been inducted into a society so that the goblins could keep a watchful eye on him?

Probably yes.

Harry was stupid for not wondering earlier.

He guessed he was just grateful to have his head still attached to his neck.

"You write a lot of articles about that?" Harry asked. "What happens to cursebreakers?"

Among other things Harry didn't know.

"Folks tell me things. But I don't usually write them up. Not that interesting to our readership. Or so they tell me." Xenophilius couldn't stop looking at the boards Harry had with him. "I'm good with runes, too. I write all our rune puzzles."

Xenophilius snatched away the planks.

"I'll examine these. I'm sure I can tell you why you're bothering to carry them around. You, don't just stand around. Go help Luna with the press. It's in a dreadful condition."

"I'm not a repair wizard."

"And I'm not allowed to use explosive spells. Still do from time to time. Off you go."

"I really don't know the first thing."

"Close enough. I'm not much of a publisher. Learned on the job. It's good to make mistakes, feels better than wandering around your land in the buff. In, in, you go. Fix my press otherwise we might miss our deadline."

X-X

Luna was inside the strange, tall building she called home.

"So Daddy didn't call a repairer." She sounded disappointed. "Why did you give him two boards? Are you paying him to be our repairer? You're very confusing, Harry."

He hadn't seen Luna for, what, a week. Maybe two. He'd forgotten how wonderfully confusing her mind could be.

"He seems to think I came to help you repair the press."

"You're awfully scrawny, but fine. You can hold the spanner."

"You know how to repair the press?" Harry asked.

"Well, of course I do. You think my daddy can?"

"Well."

"Oh, he's hopeless with equipment."

"So, let's repair it."

"Right, it's the next floor up. Although some parts may have flown up to the floor above that. It's also possible we may have to dredge the stream. A window was open when the 'accident' happened. Between you and me, I think Daddy just likes to see an explosion now and then. Like those Weasley twins. Oh, I suppose not anymore…. I didn't know both of them well. They were rather large when I was much smaller. Seemed dangerous then. I'm sure I hid behind my mother, when she was alive, or maybe a tree if Mrs. Weasley brought them to visit. I wonder if I should bake the family a pie. With custard."

Luna was very different outside of school. Still gauzy, but more confident in familiar surroundings. As they got to work Harry's head began to scream in pain. He loved Luna, he really did, but if logic existed in one tiny corner of a witch's mind, then Luna preferred to reside and function in the very furthest corner.

The illogic zone.

Luna set to work on the press. Harry literally held the spanner and watched her while she gathered up the parts one by one and magicked everything back together again.

"What do we need the spanner for?" Harry asked.

"Tradition. Just keep holding it. You're getting a good education."

Harry gritted his teeth and smiled. Oh, boy.

Cross magical repairman off the list. Most boring job ever.

X-X

An hour or two later, Luna ran a few test sheets through the printer. They came out fine. They hadn't had to dredge the stream for missing bits and bobs.

"You definitely have a future career as a repairman, if you want it. You held the spanner very well."

"You did all the work," Harry said.

"You were supervising. Of course, I think you would do better as a teacher. I never learned spells quite so well as when you taught them."

"Thank you."

"Well, let's go get your boards back from daddy. He might try to burn them or something."

"In the summer?"

"When he gets an idea in his head, you can never tell what he's going to do."

Like other members of the Lovegood family.

Luna returned Harry to her father who was sitting in a chair in front of their odd house. "I'm going to bake a pie."

"There are raspberries in the cellar. First of the season, early this year."

"Yum. Raspberries and cream in a pie."

"Be good, Luna."

"Always."

That was what family was. Someone telling you to be good. Harry certainly hadn't had that with his relatives.

"She do a good job fixing the press?"

"I guess so. She ran off some test sheets. They were fine."

"A chip right off the old block, my treasure."

Harry didn't want to talk about magical repair any more.

"You discover anything about those boards?" Harry asked Xenophilius.

"Yes. I think so. These came from a house didn't they? Fairly old, a dark family."

Right, right, and right.

"How did you know?"

"You know, before we talk about your boards, I think I owe you, and your absent friends, an apology."

Mr. Lovegood had almost gotten Harry, Ron, and Hermione captured by Death Eaters.

"Please, it's all in the past."

"No, Harry, I'm sorry for what I did. I guess I don't stand up to extortion very well."

The Voldemort-regime had kidnapped Luna, his only child, to ensure he toed the line. Harry was more than wary of the odd wizard, but he also understood.

"I did have a chance to work over your planks. Interesting."

"Good."

Then silence.

Mr. Lovegood didn't go on to discuss what he found interesting. Although he did stand up and start rubbing the boards, lost in his own thoughts. Harry was surprised the wizard didn't start swaying or dancing to music only he could hear.

"Mr. Lovegood? The planks?"

"Oh, yes. You felt the runes in them."

"I felt engravings. I didn't know for certain they were runes."

"Oh, yes. A very controlling, dominating set of runes."

"Can I do anything with them? Or am I going to have to tear the house down just to have some peace?"

"Tear it down? No, no."

"Alright."

Harry felt a little better. Then he realized Lovegood wasn't saying anything. It was so quiet, Harry could hear the stream making little noises.

Lovegood didn't make it easy to have a conversation with him.

All this silence.

"What do I have to do then?" Harry ventured.

"The house doesn't know you, Harry. You'll have to introduce yourself."

Oh, boy.

There was probably something wrapped in that statement, but Harry didn't know where to start.

"How?"

"Hmm. Good question."

Xenophilius looked at the planks a bit longer.

"Which house, which family is this from?" the older wizard asked.

"The house of Black."

"Toujours pur."

"Right."

"Well, hmm. I'd suggest you get these boards back to their mates."

"Okay. Then what?"

"Oh. Right. I thought it was obvious."

"Nope, sorry."

"Blood, Mr. Potter. Blood."

"What?"

"A little blood on the runes, put them back in place, and then it may or may not let you modify things, repair things."

"I don't understand."

"It was built to be sturdy, stubborn, long-lasting, resistant to change. You have to convince it."

"It's a house."

"Right. Whose family members attended Hogwarts which has its own set of quirks. I'd bet knuts that they had someone — a family member, probably, the smart, crazy one of their generation — attempt to reproduce the idiosyncrasies of Hogwarts for themselves. I'm surprised they didn't build it out of stone. If they have a house somewhere out of stone, I'd be damned careful, young man."

"Right."

This was getting worse and worse and worse. Harry was of half a mind to just knock the pile down. Sell the freehold and pocket the pounds.

Harry got the planks from Xenophilius and thanked the man.

"What are you going to do next?" Lovegood asked.

"I don't know."

"Can I quote you, Mr. Potter?"

"What?"

"That line. I don't know. You're becoming famous for saying it."

"Right. I wish I wouldn't become more famous for being an ignoramus."

"Well, you should hear what folks say about me."

Harry had. He wouldn't lust after such a reputation. No way, no how. Harry thought that Xenophilius was really becoming quite lucid.

He gave the older wizard a considering look. Like, I know what you're supposed to be, but what are you really.

"I'm not addled, not today, at least. I'm just known for being goofy."

"You play it up," Harry said.

"In public I do. It's more fun than you could imagine. You should hear some of the things people tell to a man they think is crazy. It's where many of my best stories come from."

"Urk."

Harry hoped Luna didn't play games like that. But there wasn't exactly a simple question one could ask to find out.

"Don't be angry."

"I'm not." He was.

"Well, now that you know, I can do one thing. I said I was sorry before. When you thought I was bonkers, so I'll tell you now, when I'm sane, that I really am sorry. For what I did. I thought I was protecting my daughter. Of course, there is no protecting someone from that kind of evil. Even when you do evil yourself."

"I forgave you before. I'll do it again. Although I don't like the dimwit act."

"A wizard has to have his fun. You'll find something you like, I'm sure. In fact, I guarantee it."

A touch of the seer in him. Or more crock flowing from his mouth.

"You know, professions and hobbies. You're not that far away from finding something. Trust me, I know."

Harry didn't know. He didn't want to know, at least not from this wizard's mouth.

Crazy lived there and had for a long, long time.

X-X

Harry had fled the Lovegood home, conducted his business with the stern-again McGonagall, and walked back to Hogsmeade. His stomach suggested it was time to stop and pay the thrice-daily toll. This one called lunch.

He clutched his planks hard against his shoulder. McGonagall hadn't known anything about the runes supposed engraved into his planks of wood. The Runes teacher, who Harry hadn't had much to do with, was away for part of the summer, so no answers there.

Harry was considering what crazy-not-so-crazy Lovegood had said. Give over some blood to appease his cranky house. Say hello. Talk to it in soothing tones. Wax it by hand. Put up new wallpaper.

Craziness.

He also had come away from Hogwarts with a bale of pamphlets. On every possible topic and career. Three touched on aspects on home maintenance. He planned to read them over lunch.

Maybe he'd stop at the Three Broomsticks. He knew he wasn't going to dare eating at the Hogshead.

He walked inside and waved at Rosmerta behind the bar. She waved him to a table of his choice. It was busy, but not Hogsmeade Weekend busy. Harry looked around. His eyes darted around then room.

He looked at one table, glanced at the next, and then he went back. What. He found his appetite gone. Zap-poof-gone.

At the table that had caught Harry attention was one wizard and three muggles. The most muggle muggles that ever muggled. Harry, unfortunately, knew them well.

Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley.

His last living relatives.

None of them touched their drinks, especially the one that fuzzed and burped.

"Boy, we've been waiting on you for a year," Vernon said.

What an affectionate greeting.

Harry turned on his heel, considered apparating, and decided his luck wasn't that strong today. He zipped through the door and barely heard a parting bellow.

Harry twisted and turned in the small village. He didn't care to get caught by Petunia or Dudley. Vernon moved so slowly there was little chance there. They'd also had a wizard with them. Right, Dedalus Diggle, commonly thought the dumbest of the members of the Order of the Phoenix.

Mundungus Fletcher had also been a member.

A sterling gallery of wizard-kind.

Harry turned and ran down an alley. He'd never seen some of the buildings down here. Blocks of flats, interesting. He might take one if he did end up tearing down Number Twelve. He thought of this as a tables-turned version of Harry Hunting. He was not so bad at avoiding irritants, well, Dursley-borne irritants.

Distracted apparition was not a very useful thing. He needed about a minute to clear his mind and then he'd get himself out of this family-infested hell hole.

Harry slowed and then walked out of the alley. Into another alley. Like how Diagon Alley gave way into Knockturn. Strange spot, shadowy even though it was plenty sunny.

Must be some form of magic, kept everything in the shadows. Not so good for the curious.

Harry kept his eyes down, didn't look around, and tried to blend in. There were shops back here. More interesting ones than he'd known about in Hogsmeade. No frilly doilies and tea shops. Kind of like the Three Broomsticks versus the Hogshead. Both existed in one village, but they wouldn't be confused for one another.

This spot of roughness lasted maybe two blocks. Tiny.

Harry aimed for what he thought was the exit when he heard breaking glass above his head.

Then he felt the plink-plink of glass landing in his hair and on his clothing.

When he looked up, he saw a wizard in dark robes dangling out. It took his some time to recognize that the wizard was screaming.

Harry scrambled out of the way. If the rotund wizard fell… Harry didn't want to break his fall with his own body.

Eventually two sets of hands grabbed onto the wizard and dragged him back into the room. At least one wizard was really yelling now.

"Hey," Harry yelled.

Dumb.

He got a stunner sent his way as recompense. The planks he had on his shoulder absorbed the magic. Harry then thought to duck.

The cut-up wizard tried to throw himself out the window again.

The hood that had been fixed over his head came off in the struggle.

The man might not be wearing a garish bowler or be sending Hagrid to Azkaban or accepting a donation from Lucius Malfoy, but Harry recognized him anyway.

The former Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge.

He was thinner, less assured. Okay, he was terrified.

"Help me. Please. Potter, help me."

Harry had to help. Even a piece of excrement like him.

Harry cast several stunners. He connected with one of the attackers. Or kidnappers.

Spells rained back at him.

His stupid planks from the House of Black protected him from the spells he didn't dodge.

Eventually Fudge was stunned or, at least, silenced.

It was seconds. Fractions of seconds, maybe. It felt like hours.

The spells let up against Harry.

"No, not him. Ignore him. We're gone."

Everyone in the broken apartment disappeared. Fudge along with the two or three people who had come for him. Portkey. Harry knew them well.

The street, which had had some traffic on it, was now deserted, save for Harry. Totally cleared out.

What a brave wizarding world.

Cowards. That was a bit harsh. Folks-who-minded-their-business.

Still, if Harry were in trouble, he'd have hoped for better.

Hoped and not received.

Harry looked around and realized he was still primed for a fight. He felt a bit ridiculous. He put his wand away into a holster he'd bought off a Ravenclaw fifth year. Her family made them. Good stuff.

He thought back on the fight. He wished he'd gone for something stronger than a stunner.

He wondered what to do. Find a floo and call it in. Send a letter. Oh, by the way, the former Minister of Magic got himself stolen in Hogsmeade… Harry realized he could just send off a Patronus to Kingsley Shacklebolt. Better take it to the top right away.

Harry pulled his wand and sent the message. He realized he'd have to stay put and explain what he'd seen. The neatnik in him wanted to sweep up the glass or something. But it was evidence so he left it, tried not to look at it.

Tried not to think of what had just happened.

Harry couldn't say he approved of kidnapping. But, for Fudge, he might just bend his moral touchstones. No, even Fudge deserved help.

Half-hearted, inept help. But help.

Harry waited badly.

He was twitchy about standing here. He kept expecting someone to throw a spell his way or come up and ask for an interview.

What actually happened was worse. Dedalus Diggle caught up to Harry.

"What happened here?"

Yeah, the dumbest wizard in the Order of the Phoenix. Diggle looked around, stepped on the crinkling-crackling glass, and came toward Harry. As if there hadn't been a minor battle on this street a few minutes earlier.

"Your aunt and uncle wanted to talk to you. Apparently there was some damage to their home. They wondered if you could help. They didn't trust me to perform the magic. Maybe you could."

Why wouldn't Harry ever learn? Just walking down a street was enough to get him into trouble.

X-X

A/N: Uh oh, a plot emerges. Poor Harry.

X-X


	5. Chapter 5

X-X

Chapter 5

X-X

"Harry?" Dedalus Diggle asked. "Harry, are you alright? You're not saying anything. Harry?"

Harry looked at the broken glass strewn everywhere on the street.

"What happened here? Looks like an unhappy dragon tumbled in and thrashed around."

No, it had been a wizard's fight. Harry had been in the center of it.

"That wall is still on fire. A dragon, here, by Merlin's grace. A dragon in Hogsmeade."

Dedalus Diggle could see, but couldn't get the right answer.

"It's going to take the whole building down to ashes."

Harry turned and noted that some wood was still on fire, just a little, but the flame was blue. What spells did that? Harry didn't know off hand. It didn't look like anything was turning to ashes.

The debris wasn't evidence of a dragon flying into Hogsmeade. It was a mess from the battle he'd just participated in with the wizards who'd kidnapped the former Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, a useless, venal man.

"Mr. Diggle?" Harry asked, trying to calm him down.

"A dragon. We have to tell somebody. They have to catch it."

"There is no dragon. There's just some people who made off with Fudge."

"What kind of dragon was it? A big one, I reckon…"

That was exactly how Harry's day was going.

Walk down an alley and get pulled into trying to stop a kidnapping. It was enough to drive Harry crazy.

He ignored Diggle and though about everything that had happened in the last ten minutes.

He was angry that he failed, true, but not that angry with himself. Harry couldn't have won. They had numbers on their side and the advantage of a protected spot that was above street level. A protected spot to fire spells from. Harry could have done nothing, but feel useless for trying.

No, he was mad at himself because he was bumming around trying to solve a problem and then — smack — he was in a fight again. Harry was trying to fix his house, trying to run away from his relatives who had been installed in the Three Broomsticks, trying to play at being an adult. And, then, a battle.

Harry could have died, but without a secret resurrection thingie stuffed into the scar on his head. If he had died, he would have been permanently dead while trying to save a toerag named Fudge.

Not the best use of his efforts.

Harry felt stupid, useless, angry.

Then there was this Diggle freaking out about dragons.

For a moment, Harry almost wished he'd never come into this world of wizards and magic and idiocy.

But just for a moment.

On an average day, Harry loved magic. Just not today.

He thought about silencing Diggle. The man might not even notice it, though.

Harry needed a plan. He kicked one of the boards from Grimmauld Place. Their stubborn runes had kept Harry from being hit by a number of spells.

He wanted his home fixed fast. He'd try what Lovegood said, give it some blood, let it get used to Harry. Then he was done worrying about it, dragging wood everywhere.

If that didn't work… He wasn't going to get himself killed on an errand like this.

Harry Potter, Patron Saint of Lost Causes. That had been true for quite some time. He'd just expected bad things to flow his way.

His life should be different. He was free from prophecy. He was unburdened.

Except he wasn't.

Not even the final duel with Tom Riddle made Harry feel this way, melancholy and angry and wrathful. Harry had been willing to die to take Voldemort down. There was a good reason for that risk, a worthy purpose.

Now Harry was just an idiot with a wand and not enough knowledge of how to use it. Or when to use it.

He was unprepared while the rest of the world wasn't. He was too busy saying he was fine and trying to be fine. He wasn't figuring anything out. He wasn't getting off the luck wagon and onto the skill wagon.

That was how he often felt since the battle. A victim of luck, not skill.

He'd been back in his parents' world for seven years. He was a bit more famous and a bit more useless, thinking he was prepared when he wasn't. He wasn't a braggart and incompetent to Lockhart proportions, of course, but more than he'd like.

Almost nothing he'd done in years had been worth anything. He survived, of course, which was very good for him. Not because of anything he did, usually in spite of it. A bunch of luck, quirky chances that had broke his way for no apparent reason.

Harry felt like a fraud who had settled for fixing his house and tormenting the spirit of Dumbledore. Harry didn't have to be that person, blessed with alternating good and bad luck.

He could be more than that.

He would.

Then Diggle started moaning about the dragon again.

Harry really wanted to stun him.

Harry, another Harry, might have let his self-anger fade away. If Diggle hadn't been here. The fight got this self-evaluation started, but Diggle kept butting in. Whenever Harry tried to quash his anger for one or the other, well, he didn't have enough forgiveness to cover both at the same time.

He didn't need to forgive.

He needed to improve.

He thought about how to handle Diggle and the Dursleys, sounded like a band name. Better than the Weird Sisters.

Had he been of his normal, semi-cowed state, Harry might have done the minimum to help them, avoid any problems. Compliant, gentle, pleasing.

Harry was almost eighteen. It was time to learn a very useful fact of life.

Politeness — along with respect and a whole bunch of other facets of life — was earned. Harry once knew that and had to relearn it. Years of politeness that had been beaten into him — literally beaten in — evaporated. Harry was left with the mischievous streak he had mostly given up by age eleven, if not thirteen.

Politeness would demand Harry agree to meet with his relatives, help them, listen to their grousing and complaining.

This was a different Harry. He hoped a permanently different Harry.

"Dragons…"

"There are no dragons, Mr. Diggle."

"We'd better do something about your relatives, Harry. If there's a dragon around. I don't know, do dragons eat muggles? I guess they must. Please help me with them. I've been helping to protect them for a year. I'm awfully tired of them. They're rather unpleasant folks, you know."

"They are."

"Alright. Let's get them squared away," Diggle said.

"No," Harry said, politely. What he meant was, Tip Dudley and Vernon and his aunt into the nearest stream. That's square enough.

It wasn't a word he'd used much in his life. At least not to any affect. "No" to the Triwizard Tournament got him precisely nothing. "No" to Vernon Dursley got him bloodied.

Now this idiot-wizard would have to respect the word "no."

"No?" Diggle asked, his eyes endlessly blinking.

"No."

"What am I going to do with them?" Diggle asked.

Yes, Harry Potter, Problem Solver. Find something disgusting you don't want to handle, give it to Harry. Not any more.

"Why did you bring my relatives to Hogsmeade?" Harry asked.

"They were pretty desperate to talk with you. So I brought them here."

"Again, why?"

"Well, they're awfully pushy. Kept asking about a lot of pounds. I think your uncle wants you to magic his excess weight off his frame. I didn't have the heart to tell him we don't have any spells for that."

"He wasn't asking about his weight. He was asking for money. Muggle money is called pounds and pence."

"Ah, you learn something every day."

Harry doubted that Diggle did.

The Dursleys were in Hogsmeade to shake down Harry. Of course. Why not?

"I'm not helping them. I'm not giving them any money. I've got a lot going on right now. Tell them to owl me."

Of course, they didn't own an owl. Harry didn't either since Hedwig's passing.

"But…"

"You agreed to help protect them. So get them out of Hogsmeade before they offend someone. They will. You can time it with a watch. My uncle and aunt can't help themselves."

"Oh, my."

Dedalus Diggle went off for his charges before they managed to talk themselves into a wizard's duel or something. A stunning spell was faster than anything Vernon or Dudley could manage with their fists.

Harry looked around the alley, thought about what he might do. Who did he report this to? It didn't seem like anyone else had.

When Harry was still trying to make sense of it all, the Aurors arrived.

Not to investigate, though.

They secured the scene.

Then a man in a garish, faintly ridiculous robe arrived. Kingsley, the Interim Minister of Magic.

"What a mess."

The understatement of the week.

X-X

Kingsley walked over the scene with Harry and listened to a recounting of the battle. He dispatched two Aurors up to the room where the wizards had holed up, where they'd rained down spells.

"Not a bad first report. If you were an Auror," Kingsley said.

"Which I'm not."

Kingsley nodded. "Are you wounded, Harry?"

"No."

"No injuries?"

"No."

"Why…"

"One moment, please." Kingsley bottled any further questions Harry might have had while he examined everything he could see. Then his Aurors began to return and report.

When Harry had Kingsley alone again he asked, "Does the Minister of Magic show up to crime scenes now?"

"My second today. So far."

"Oh?"

"A house burned down. Then a predecessor of mine got himself stuffed into an apartment where he didn't want to be."

A kidnapping and a fire.

"Was it Fudge's house?" Harry asked.

"No."

Kingsley knew whose house it was. He wasn't saying for a reason. Strange. Cagey even. Like Kingsley was playing Mad-Eye Moody but in a quieter key.

Why?

Harry had a brain, didn't use it much, but he had one. He decided to turn it on and direct it to this problem. A man as busy as Kingsley shows up, gets the story from Harry…

Was it just because of Harry's fame?

"Tell me again why you were down this alley. This really isn't a spot a recent Hogwarts grad…"

"I didn't graduate," Harry said.

"Right. Explain it again."

So Harry did. Diggle and his relatives and his not wanting to talk to them.

"That man isn't an idiot. He's a lump of stone someone animated into motion," Kingsley said. "Bringing muggles, particularly those muggles, into a magical village."

"Check and see. I'm sure he got them out."

"I should hope so. I should have someone fine him anyway."

Kingsley looked at the pattern of glass, received yet more reports from his Aurors, and kept silent a bit longer.

He was really chewing something over.

There was a question he needed to ask about Fudge's kidnapping. Maybe about the house fire.

It was no secret that Fudge had set himself against Harry Potter. A show trial, a year of slandering in the public news, kind of sour any possibility of friendship. Harry and the former Minister weren't friendly.

So Kingsley was here because Harry — famous old Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived — was a suspect.

It amused Harry more than it angered him. He was over angry (for now).

Maybe Malfoy's house burned. Maybe the Lestrange pile, if there was such a thing. Fudge and Malfoy, they had once been very close.

Harry wasn't about to ask. Let Kingsley ask.

"If that's everything, I needed to finish my errands," Harry said.

"Uh, Harry. One more thing."

"Alright."

"Have you seen Dolores Umbridge…"

It all clicked together for Harry. Not Fudge and Malfoy or Fudge and the late Lestrange Manor. It was Fudge and Umbridge.

"Are you saying that Umbridge was another kidnapping victim?" Harry asked.

"Her house is burned. We don't know about her."

Harry nodded. He could hear the implied question. Did you do it? Part of him was sad he hadn't thought of it first. If there was anyone who deserved such a fate…

"I thought she was being questioned or stuffed into one of the camps she created."

"She had been questioned. She was demoted at the Ministry."

Kingsley could have started singing in falsetto and Harry would have been less surprised. "Demoted, not fired." Not imprisoned.

"It's complicated."

Harry didn't agree. "I guess maybe someone decided to uncomplicate it, Kingsley."

"Someone. Any ideas about this someone?"

"Ask the question."

"Are you involved, Harry?"

"No."

Kingsley actually looked relieved. Like he'd assumed that Harry was masterminding the whole thing. Given the way imaginations ran in the wizarding world, Harry wasn't shocked. By some children's books, Harry was supposedly taming dragons by the age of five and breaking up dark cultists at the age of seven. He'd heard rumors there was a forthcoming series of more adult fare that had Harry binding Veela colonies and starting up harems. For the discerning adult reader.

A bunch of crap. But for Kingsley to believe it…

Harry was Harry. Not Superman. He had had to work up a lot of anger just to tell his relatives he didn't want to see them.

Kidnapping Umbridge or torching her home or whatever happened — Harry wasn't even close to making that happen.

Why was she available to kidnap at all, Harry wondered.

"Why wasn't she in a cell? You let her go home to her own house every night. You know how many people she helped kill."

"Truth finding, reconciliation, won't be fast. I was born in South Africa even if I had to come to Scotland to receive my education. I know a few things about reconciliation, Harry."

X-X

Harry found he didn't care to listen to a lecture on forgiveness or some of the other pablum Dumbledore might have spooned out. Dumbledore might never have become Minister but one of his acolytes just might have.

"I told you what I know about this. Can you tell me what you know?" Harry asked.

"Oh, Cornelius Fudge."

"Right."

"Not so bright, the most hated politician in a few hundred years. The man should have gone into self-exile. Instead, he just ran his usual schedule."

That was beyond not-so-bright, Harry thought.

"What did he do?"

"He dressed to go out this morning, his wife told us. He never came back."

"When I saw him he was wearing a hood."

"That wasn't what his wife reported."

They kidnapped a man and hooded him, let him wake up. With magic, it wouldn't have been hard to keep Fudge stunned, make him invisible, move him even when he was incapacitated. Why did the kidnappers allow him to wake up, allow him to struggle? Were they trying to get noticed or something?

"Who took him?" Harry asked.

"That's the real reason I'm involved," Kingsley said. "I'm playing Head of the DMLE and Interim Minister at the same time. At least until I can be sure of anyone I slot in."

"Alright. You still didn't answer my question."

Kingsley didn't even acknowledge he'd been caught out. He was a quick study at dissembling and at losing his shame for little things like lying.

"We only know that Fudge isn't the first. The question should be who took them?" Kingsley asked.

Multiple kidnappings? No wonder Kingsley wondered if Harry had been involved. If the right names were on the list, Harry would have been glad to be involved. Not that he would admit to it.

"Okay. Who all is missing?"

"He, she, or they got Fudge today. Perhaps also Dolores Umbridge. In the last week, we've recorded the disappearance of a dozen folks who worked at the Ministry. Games and Sports, Floo Regulation, Wizengamot Services. That doesn't count folks who don't have some connection to the Ministry. If there any, no one's made a single report. Probably don't trust the Aurors to do anything. Up until recently You-Know…Voldemort controlled them like they were his personal mastiffs. We're going to be rebuilding reputation there for decades."

At least that long, Harry agreed.

"Any guesses on who?" Harry asked.

"Former Death Eaters who got away. Muggleborns who got rounded up and remained unhappy at what happened to them. Werewolves because…who knows. There's one theory that some idiots are raising a dragon somewhere and need food to feed it. We don't have a lot of top shelf minds left in the Ministry."

Harry nodded, but he was still trying to work through one of the hypotheses. "Food?"

"Right."

"Food for dragons."

"It's a dumb idea, but that's what we have right now."

There was something in that tone of voice. Uh oh.

Harry kind of recognized it.

Like when Dumbledore was going to lay on a whopper.

"You sound awfully busy just to be talking to an ordinary citizen, Minister. Even if you just came to clear an ordinary citizen of any wrongdoing."

Kingsley had an honest face and a gracious smile which he then used.

Kingsley definitely wanted something. He had seen something similar from Fudge once — and from the late Scrimgeour more recently. Kingsley wanted Harry inside his Ministry now that he was sure that Harry wasn't a kidnapper or arsonist.

Pretty low standards these days.

Harry found himself interested in the offer he knew was coming.

Not because it was the polite thing to do. Fudge had tried to use Harry as had Scrimgeour. Dumbledore had been remarkably skilled at getting Harry to dance a particular tune.

Harry knew what the music sounded like.

Harry was willing to listen, to accept the possibility of being used because he needed to use Kingsley a bit. Harry still needed to do a lot of growing. But Harry couldn't, wouldn't, be tied down to the Ministry. Not one that had kept Umbridge on the books as long as they had. Who knew how many more of her virtual cousins were still polluting the ranks?

But Harry was willing to trade a favor for a favor. Not a Ministry favor, a Kingsley favor. Harry trusted Kingsley as much as any adult he knew.

"So, what would it take…," Kingsley started.

"No," Harry said.

"Harry, please hear me out."

"No."

No negotiation ever began until someone said no. Hadn't Vernon bellowed that more than once?

Saying 'no' to Vernon and meaning it — priceless. Doing the same to Kingsley was almost as much fun. Of course, he eventually needed to get to 'yes' with the man.

"No, no, no. No," Harry continued for now.

"Harry, please."

"I don't want to hear it."

He looked at Kingsley. The wizard was now appropriately spooked. Good.

"It'll just take a few weeks or months."

A few weeks or months… Right.

"Is it less crazy than anything Dumbledore ever dreamed up?" Harry asked.

"He was a great wizard, Harry." Kingsley was smiling again. He knew what was what.

"Maybe. He was also crazier than a bag of kneazles."

"True."

"Tell me," Harry said. "Before I go and get drunk at the Hogshead."

"I hear you worked there last night."

"True."

"It was in the papers. Harry interning at the grubby bar. You should see the mail we got. That boy should work at a nice establishment."

Uh oh. Kingsley actually had a plan. He'd been thinking about even before he arrived here.

"You're governing by opinion poll. I think that got at least one of your predecessors into big trouble."

"I take Fudge as a model of what not to do with my time in office," Kingsley said.

"Good."

"So what I'm suggesting isn't that you join the Ministry."

"I wouldn't. A place that kept Umbridge employed until she was kidnapped…"

Kingsley went stony at that. "There's a different time for that argument."

"Fine."

"We need someone. Someone who has been invited into half the businesses in the country. Someone who could go and listen to what's happening at a criminal defense firm, then the Pride of Portree, then the third floor at St. Mungo's, then the publisher's office at the Daily Prophet."

"You're saying I've been invited to all of them?"

Harry wasn't really reading the letters he had received from strangers. But it sounded like someone in Kingsley's office was.

"Half a dozen charms masters have invited you for a conversation. Ollivander's three biggest competitors. A member of the notoriously secretive Necromancer's Guild. A famous few portrait painters have invited you as an artist's model. Magical theorists and creature keepers and a few independent curse breakers. Not everyone, but everyone who has deep connections in our society. This isn't one person doing these kidnappings. That takes a number of participants."

"I agree with your logic."

"So you'll do it?"

"I didn't say that."

"It's not dangerous."

"Of course it is."

"Fine. It shouldn't be dangerous, but your presence will…push things, I suppose. We just need a good place to start our investigation. Someone curious, someone smart who might give us that place. The criminal underworld, small as it is, is still basically smashed. These folks didn't do this for profit. They did it for ideology."

Harry didn't disagree, but Kingsley knew more than he was saying. So, Harry wanted to make him explain.

"What in the world would someone say in a public place?"

Kingsley apparently didn't like it when young wizards asked sensible questions. "It could be something you hear. It could be people you see palling around. Then, again, you're Harry Potter. Someone might just drop a hint to you. For approval. Like 'you know what that Fudge did to you, he's sorry now, I'm sure.'"

"I think a lot of people have that reaction. If that's all you want, you'll be questioning five hundred wizards by tomorrow." Harry shook his head. "You're looking for a tattle tale. I think you need a Percy Weasley or some other Headboy or Headgirl."

"We need someone with invitations. We need someone people might slip up in front of. We need an observer like you, Harry."

He didn't mean observer. The word Kingsley meant was spy. Recruit the most famous seventeen-year-old to be a spy. Kingsley was either a genius or completely fermented in the mind.

Harry had to work hard to keep a smile off his face. That sounded like it was the key to every locked door in the wizarding world. It sounded like his saying yes would come with a lot of little favors, little opportunities to rack up unusual learning opportunities.

"No," Harry said. No meaning 'maybe.' No meaning 'it's not yes, yet, but it could be.'

"Harry."

"I have to find Aberforth Dumbledore."

"Him. Why?"

"Follow up from last night. You know, the Prophet said I was working there."

"This conversation isn't over," Kingsley said.

Harry planned to draw it out. At least for better terms than Kingsley would ever willingly volunteer.

"Seems pretty stale to me," Harry said.

X-X

Aberforth was awake and repairing the Hogshead when Harry walked in. It looked slightly better than the alley where the battle took place. Not so much glass on the floor.

"Surprised you came back," the bartender said. "They weren't gentle with you last night."

"That was not gentle? What qualifies as rough?"

"You come back on a Saturday night. That usually devolves into rough."

Aberforth gave a toothy grin that made him look like the world's oldest child.

"I need some advice," Harry said.

"I thought I gave you some last night."

"Look at these. You ever study runes?"

"Of course."

"I wish I had," Harry said. He held up the boards he'd taken from Grimmauld Place, the ones that even acted as shields when Harry got into his firefight with the folks who kidnapped — or wizardnapped — Cornelius Fudge.

"Compared to my late brother, I'm a bit of a dunce. Compared to everyone else, I could be Minister of Magic," Aberforth said.

Aberforth took the boards and set them on his bartop. He started examining one.

Harry dug around for the pamphlets he'd gotten at Hogwarts.

Big mistake.

Aberforth saw them. "McGonagall's still handing those out?"

"Yeah."

"Worthless. Trying to get you to buy the full course, which is a little bit less than worthless. Just a little."

"Oh," Harry said.

"Costs enough so you could be in my pub every night for six months and still come out ahead. You're better off going to any used bookstore and finding a decent repair manual."

Harry decided he was still going to read them, but he might just take them less seriously.

"Mr. Lovegood…"

"Xenophilius?"

"Yes."

"Insane, but also not usually wrong. If you can read through some of archaic terms he uses."

"He said I should bleed on the runes and put them back into the house."

"Well, that does sound crazy." Aberforth ignored Harry and worked on the boards.

Harry read one of the pamphlets that Aberforth had trashed. Harry found the proportion of useful-material to upselling-a-paid-course to be…ridiculous.

The two spells in the pamphlet for home repair were an upgraded version of the repairing spell, which Harry knew and had used, and a spell for shaking the dust out of drapes. Which was about step 139 of the 200 steps he needed to follow to put Grimmauld back together.

"Look at that."

"What?" Harry asked.

"All the time Albus spent in that pile and he never noticed. Blood wards."

"Blood wards," Harry said.

"Okay, that's an imprecise way of talking. Family wards with a blood component."

Harry shook his head. He had heard about blood wards, but knew almost nothing about them.

"Properly constructed blood wards."

"I still don't understand."

"You need a tutor, then. Go ahead, kid, use your blood on these boards. Put them back where you found them. Let it all cook for…maybe overnight. The runes should accept you and then they'll let your magic function on the house itself."

"Really?"

"Lovegood suggested it. I have to say he isn't wrong. In fact, I'd give odds on it. Care to wager a few galleons?"

"Erm, no."

"Alright."

It was that simple? Bleed on a couple of runes and then the house wouldn't misbehave? It sounded…impossible.

"Merlin."

"Not this week, kid."

Like it was an old joke. A millennium old.

"So that's one problem solved. Likely. What are you doing about the rest?" Aberforth asked.

"That's my problem, that house."

"I see. Your only problem? Getting accused of masterminding a kidnapping ring doesn't happen every day."

Harry definitely needed something else to add to the whole Boy-Who-Lived mystique. Criminal mastermind sounded catchy, right?

"How did you hear that?" Harry asked.

"Kingsley doesn't think there's much of a criminal underworld. I beg to differ."

Harry thought back to the crowd last night. Harry had probably served most of the wizarding world's criminal underworld.

"I hear you handled Diggle well. I've got barrel corks with more wit than he has."

"I'm not putting up with them again. No way."

"So you're going to take Kingsley's offer — after you extort some concessions."

"No."

"Of course you are. As one wizard who has been listening for a long, long time, I can tell you it's an important job. Listening. If you do it right, it's also a lot of fun. Why do you think I have this place? All my friends, plus all the scum, come here and I get to hear just about everything."

Aberforth the spy master. It sort of made sense, but it was also totally crazy.

"You know who is behind Fudge and Umbridge?" Harry asked.

"I'm pretty sure it's not the usual suspects. Not professionals, not ones who work for gold, at least. Could be political types. Could be hobbyists. Could be the opposite of Lucius Malfoy — rich, usually law-abiding folks, but tired of seeing the vicious get away with things. Unfortunately, they don't frequent my establishment. I'm more than a bit blind in that alley."

But Aberforth had the rest of them covered. Harry thought back to the prior evening, the smokiness of the room, the heaviness, the continual way the bar was mobbed. None of that was natural.

"You burned something in your fire."

"Wood."

"Beyond wood."

The old wizard took on a cagey look. "There's a few herbs I sometimes add in. Makes people a bit… If you'd been drinking, Harry, you never would have noticed."

"Good for business, I bet."

More than a bit dishonest.

"Excellent for business. Both of them. Selling drinks and collecting secrets."

"Right."

"I like you thinking, kid. I don't know if I care for you judging."

"It's nothing."

"It's what is," Aberforth said. "Let's talk about you on the street today. How'd you do?"

As if he'd seen and heard just about everything. The Eyes of Hogsmeade, right here.

"I survived."

"That's something. You happy about it?"

"No."

"You should be."

"Failure hurts."

Harry didn't emote much, but he almost broke down in that alley afterward.

"True, but fear makes you think. You ever experience fear when it was a total surprise?"

Harry thought of the third task of the Triwizard. That had been a definite surprise. What had he learned from it? Anything? Nothing.

"Yes, sir."

Aberforth didn't believe Harry. Harry didn't even believe Harry. "That's as it is. Fear teaches us, if we listen. The trouble is that fear passes and you'll stop the deep thinking. Don't."

"I've got it," Harry said. He was finally letting some of his irritation slip through.

"Spine, it's a nice thing to have running down your back."

"I've always had one."

"Maybe. Then, again, you've been led around by the nose for a long time, boy. Maybe got it pulled right out."

"No."

"Harry, you're plenty strong, but your mind doesn't recognize it. I know you didn't have the best upbringing, everyone at least guesses at that. My brother's doing, no doubt. But you aren't that kid anymore."

"I don't talk about them, my relatives." He wouldn't even talk to them.

"You used to rebel against them, you used to have a bit of hope."

"I still do."

"Act like it," Aberforth said.

Harry had already had this conversation in his mind, but he could have used this advice a few months or a few years earlier.

"My brother."

"Right," Harry said.

"He puts the Bumblemore back into Dumbledore. That was our name, if you didn't know. Bumblemore. Up until our great grandfather."

"Really?" He couldn't keep the amusement out of his voice.

"You think Longbottom or Lovegood or Slughorn are any better? All crazy in the modern tongue. All of them old names."

"Bumblemore."

"Enough of that. You string Kingsley along, kid, but you take him up on this."

That was the plan, not that Harry would admit to it.

"You're a fan of Cornelius Fudge?" Harry asked. Why was Aberforth pushing?

"Not even Double Mint Fudge, no. But I don't like folks doing things I don't hear about at some point. Don't feel safe."

"Mad-Eye sounded like that, too."

"He was a good person when I knew him. More eccentric than most could stand."

"I might do it. Not because it's expected of me."

"Good. Why then?"

"Because I need to learn a lot more."

"That's a good attitude, kid. But you can't say that in public."

"No?"

"You say you're just trying to be helpful."

"Really?"

"Famous young man like you. You want any peace at all?"

"Yes."

"Then what people know about you, what they think you're doing, it has to make them feel secure. You're somewhere in public, a protector if ever needed. But, then, in the quiet, you need to actually protect them. You have that kind of conscience, kid. Learn for yourself, enjoy it for yourself, but let people think you're doing it for them."

Harry wondered about Aberforth's long life.

Had he, as a barkeeper, done more good for the wizard world than his more famous brother. Hogwarts and the Wizengamot versus the Hogshead. Harry didn't know.

"Alright. You let Kingsley send you to some places, but you set up your own, too. Don't be too dependent on him. Produce some of your own things."

"I guess I could ask Charlie Weasley."

Aberforth shook his head. "You wouldn't like central Europe, trust me. You don't have to go that far. I know a few guys in the trade. Let's start you off with something smaller, though. Dragons are pretty damned massive. Let's see. Maybe Montague Creatures in Lincolnshire. Gaius owes me more than a few favors. I'll tell him I'm trying to sweep up for the hash my brother did on your life. Has the benefit of being true. Let's see if I can get you there Monday."

"Good."

"Take some thick gloves you don't mind burning."

Then Aberforth kicked him out of the Hogshead and got back to his cleaning.

Harry didn't even have the time to wonder just what he'd need the gloves for.

X-X

Harry returned to Kingsley. "I thought about it."

"And?"

"Maybe we can help each other."

Kingsley smiled, led Harry away from the Aurors who might overhear, then they reopened the negotiations.

When they were done, Harry had a lot more than he'd thought possible and he still hadn't fully committed. He was going to take a few days and get some additional opinions from Order members. Or so he said. He'd just squeeze one or two more favors from Kingsley. Maybe a bit more training, maybe… Harry didn't know. He would find out, though.

He did get his house sorted. The first thing Harry got from Kingsley was a referral for someone who knew about magical buildings. Turns out the Ministry had a function for that.

Kingsley got Harry lined up to meet with a man that afternoon.

"I think we might just do some important work together," Harry said.

X-X

The evening edition of the Prophet was a recent addition to the usual morning paper, thinner than normal, but filled with notices requesting information on this or that missing person, this or that presumed criminal. The editor of the evening edition didn't know what to make of the day's competing reports — so he'd commissioned stories on all of them. There was a terrorist attack on Harry Potter, a kidnapping of a former Minister of Magic, a dragon attack upon Hogsmeade, and the burning of the home of a prominent, but disgraced, member of the Ministry. Also, Muggles had invaded Hogsmeade for the first time in three hundred seventeen years and were stunned, obliviated, and hauled away after consuming mass quantities of fire whiskey.

The Prophet needed more than one front page on an evening like this one.

So much for thoughtful intelligence gathering in the wizarding world.

Harry shook his head, bled on the boards, and shoved them back into place inside his home.

He'd just have to wait and see.

X-X


End file.
